LETTERS 

OF 

THOMAS   EDWARD   BROWN 


SOME  PRESS  NOTICES  OF  THE 
FIRST  EDITION 

"  These  volumes  are  not  only  fascinating :  they 
confirm  a  fame  which,  although  never  wide,  was 
always  unquestioned  within  its  range." — Mr.  A.  T. 
QuiLLER-CoucH  in  The  Monthly  Review. 

"A  delightful  hearty  book  of  letters,  by  a  scholar, 
a  humourist,  a  man  full  of  noble  qualities.  The 
book  is  a  book  to  be  read."— Mr.  ANDREW  LANG 
in  the  Daily  News. 

"Worthy  of  a  place  on  the  same  shelves  that 
hold  the  letters  of  Horace  Walpole  and  Cowper, 
Lamb  and  Gray,  and  Edward  FitzGerald." 

Literature. 


LETTERS 

OF 

THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 

AUTHOR  OF  'FO'C'SLE  YARNS' 

EDITED 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

BY 

SIDNEY  T.  IRWIN 

THIRD  EDITION 

VOL.   I 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  AND  CO. 

WESTMINSTER 
ARCHIBALD   CONSTABLE  AND  CO.,  LTD. 


Stack 
Annex 


ESAZ 


TO 

HIS    SISTER 
AND    HIS    CHILDREN 

THESE  VOLUMES 

ARE 

AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 

BY     HIS     FRIEND 

AND  THEIRS 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

I  DESIRE  to  thank  those  who  have  sent  me 
letters  or  helped  me  in  other  ways,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  apologize  to  them  for  the  publica- 
tion of  the  letters  being  so  long  delayed. 

Those  who  knew  the  writer  will  easily  under- 
stand me  when  I  say  that  they  were  too  private 
for  an  intelligent  copyist,  and  too  difficult  to  be 
left  to  an  unintelligent  one.  Nor  is  the  leisure 
required  for  copying  easily  found  by  a  school- 
master. Some  valuable  letters,  moreover,  were 
only  recently  sent  me.  I  have  also  been  com- 
pelled to  cut  down  the  material  at  my  disposal, 
it  being  thought  desirable  that  the  book  should 
not  be  large.  These  excuses  are  real  though 
they  do  not  claim  to  be  adequate. 

My  special  thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  Mozley 
and  Mr.  Dakyns  for  most  helpful  suggestions 
and  unsparing  labour.  Mr.  Mozley,  indeed,  has 
all  along  done  that  for  a  new  friend  which  the 
oldest  friendships  could  not  ask. 

CLIFTON  COLLEGE,  BRISTOL, 
July,  1900. 


.  .  .  Xdptroc  'ATTIKHC  uwruc  nno9aiv(ov  roc  auvoixjiac,  a>c 
rote  npoaojmAHoavTcic  arrival  .  .  .  navioiouc  tn'  €L<ppooxvHC 
revouevouc  KOI  KOOuuoTe'pouc  napoi  noAt  KUI  9cnfcpoTt'pouc 
Km  npdc  TO  ueAAov  eteAnibac. — LUCIAN. 


Large  was  his  soul ;   as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 
Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here. 
High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heav'n  to  have, 

But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave. 
So  high,  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come, 
As  to  the  chiefest  seat 
Conspicuous  and  great ; 
So  low  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. — CowtEY. 


Spcravi 

Credulus  heu  longos,  ut  quondam,  fallere  soles : 

At  tu,  sancta  anima  ct  nostri  non  indiga  luctus, 

.  .  .  quod  possum,  iuxta  lugcrc  sepulchrum 

Dum  iuvat,  et  mutae  vana  haec  iactare  favillae. — GRAY. 


INTRODUCTORY    MEMOIR 


THESE  volumes  need  no  apology.  '  Request  of 
friends'  is  indeed  the  occasion  of  their  being-  published, 
but  not  the  justification.  Everything  in  literature 
that  can  be  called  sui  generis  deserves  to  see  the 
light;  and  of  the  most  characteristic  of  these  letters 
it  may  at  least  be  said  that  they  do  not  resemble  any 
others  to  be  found  in  literature.  This  does  not  of 
necessity  imply  an  attempt  to  place  the  writer  in  the 
highest  class  of  letter-writers,  or  indeed  to  place  him 
at  all.  Comparative  estimates  in  this  kind  are  seldom 
satisfactory.  It  is  enough  to  claim  for  these  letters, 
what  cannot  be  claimed  for  the  letters  of  every  man 
of  genius,  that  their  individuality  and  variety  are 
a  perpetual  surprise — were  a  perpetual  surprise  even 
to  those  who  knew  the  writer  best.  As  one  of  his 
friends  put  it,  '  You  never  come  to  the  end  of  Brown.' 

There  has  been  much  talk  of  late  about  the  art 
of  letter-writing.  Mr.  John  Morley,  I  think,  pro- 
duced a  class-list  of  the  masters  of  the  craft ;  and 
a  brilliant  article  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  of 
July,  1898,  discussed  with  delightful  copiousness  their 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 


different  fascinations.  An  examination  of  the  styles 
there  passed  in  review  would  support  what  I  have 
said  of  the  novelty  of  this  contribution  to  epistolary 
literature.  Gray,  Cowper,  Byron,  Lamb,  Fitzgerald, 
not  one  of  these  has  a  manner  of  which  Brown's 
could  be  called  a  reproduction,  or  to  which  his 
manner  could  really  be  compared.  If  there  is  in 
it  something  of  the  allusiveness  of  Lamb,  it  is  still 
not  Lamb's  allusiveness  but  his  own.  Cowper  and 
Fitzgerald — separated  as  they  are  by  something  like 
a  century — have  that  in  common  which  is  emphati- 
cally not  a  characteristic  of  these  letters.  Cowper 
wrote,  he  said,  '  nothing  above  the  pitch  of  every- 
day scribble':  and  no  admirer  of  Brown  could 
contend  that  his  slightest  fragment  could  be  so 
described ;  while  the  '  carelessness '  which  so  charms 
us  in  Fitzgerald  is  no  less  absent.  Brown  knew  he 
was  not  careless.  '  I  like,'  he  said,  '  to  please  my 
friends.'  But  in  Pope's  phrase, '  There's  a  happiness 
as  well  as  care ' ;  and  the  best  things  in  these  letters, 
like  the  best  things  in  the  writer's  conversation, 
came  with  a  rush  of  spontaneity,  and  were  lavished 
indifferently  on  the  simple  and  the  cultivated. 

This  introduction  is  not  intended  to  anticipate  the 
reader's  judgment  on  the  letters.  That  the  man  who 
wrote  them  was  rarely  gifted  is  a  fact  sufficiently 
obvious  to  the  small  public  who  know  his  poems; 
and  the  conviction  that  a  similar  verdict  would  be 
passed  upon  his  letters  has  made  his  friends  desire 
their  publication. 

Brown  acquired  his  manner  early,  and  it  is  noticeable 
even  in  his  undergraduate  letters.  A  week  or  so 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 


before  his  death  he  spoke  to  me  of  some  of  them  with 
satisfaction,  having-  read  them  over  again  at  his  sister's 
house,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly  half  a  century.  He 
contrasted  them,  I  remember,  with  others  only  a 
little  earlier,  which  seemed  to  him  hopelessly  crude. 
In  the  earliest  letters  I  have  been  shown  there  is 
nothing  to  call  for  so  harsh  a  judgment,  but  they 
are  wholly  unlike  those  with  which  all  his  friends  are 
familiar ;  and  while  the  religious  sentiment  in  them 
is  unquestionably  sincere,  it  employs  a  language  more 
conventional  than  can  be  anywhere  discovered  in  his 
later  manner.  On  the  other  hand,  it  should  be  said 
that  the  letters  to  which  I  am  referring  were  written 
by  a  youth — at  most  by  a  very  young  man — to  a 
revered  senior  to  whom  he  was  under  great  obliga- 
tions. I  am  justified  in  using  the  phrase  'wholly 
unlike  his  later  manner,'  but  there  is  in  them  at  times 
a  startling  precocity  of  phrase  that  prepares  us  for 
that  penetrating  vigour  which  is  perhaps  the  most 
obvious  characteristic  of  the  letters  taken  as  a  whole. 

Moreover,  these  earliest  letters  show  a  force  of 
character  and  a  determination  remarkable  in  a  boy 
of  eighteen,  a  fixed  resolve  to  do  the  best  for  himself 
and  for  his  mind.  They  show,  too,  something  which 
was  true  of  him  all  through  his  life — that  he  would 
carry  out  no  resolve,  however  cherished,  at  the 
expense  of  gratitude,  or  courtesy,  or  consideration  for 
others.  I  have  drawn  freely  on  them  for  the  purposes 
of  this  memoir,  though  I  have  not  inserted  them 
among  the  other  letters,  for  the  man  is  there  un- 
questionably, even  if  the  letter-writer  is  less  recog- 
nizable. 


12  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

It  is  much  hoped  that  the  friend  to  whom  is 
inscribed  the  'Epistle,'  which  some  at  least  would 
rank  first  among  Brown's  poems,  may  be  induced 
to  give  the  world  an  adequate  biography.  For  the 
purpose  of  this  work  a  mere  outline  of  his  life,  enough 
to  serve  as  commentary  to  the  letters,  is  all  that  is 
required. 

Even  to  the  biographer  proper  his  life  will  be 
found  curiously  devoid  of  incident.  It  was  by  de- 
liberate choice  the  vita  fallens.  Reading  and  writing 
poetry,  seeing  or  writing  to  his  friends,  taking  long 
solitary  walks,  were  to  him  satisfying  pursuits ;  for 
common  ambitions  he  had  no  use. 

In  distinguished  company  he  was  not  unfrequently 
silent,  and  never  claimed  position  or  recognition  for 
himself.  '  Recognition,'  says  a  lady  who  knew  him 
well,  '  he  never  seemed  to  expect.'  Yet  he  was  quite 
alive  to  his  own  powers  (as  may  be  seen  in  more  than 
one  notable  passage  in  the  letters),  though  content, 
like  Goldsmith,  to  draw  his  bills  on  posterity.  Once 
when  I  remarked  on  the  omission  of  his  name  in  an 
article  on  '  Minor  Poets  '  in  one  of  the  magazines,  he 
said  with  a  smile,  '  Perhaps  I  am  among  the  major !  ' 

The  friend  who  spoke  of  his  indifference  to  recog- 
nition also  dwelt  on  the  singular  combination  in  him 
of  extreme  modesty  with  a  certain  proud  reserve. 
There  were,  in  truth,  two  selves  in  him — one  which 
mixed  with  his  fellows  on  terms  of  perfect  equality, 
and  another  which  inhabited  a  land  of  dreams:  he 
was  never  tired  of  insisting  on  the  value  of  dreams. 
Yet  his  dreams  were  not  dreamy  but  rather  open 
visions,  great — perhaps  his  greatest — realities.  And 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  13 

here  too  he  conversed  on  terms  of  equality  with 
somebody  or  something- ;  one  may  surmise  with  the 
Muses.  'I  never  am,  and  never  can  be  alone,'  is 
a  phrase  in  one  of  the  letters.  An  old  pupil,  who 
had  been  much  with  him,  once  said  to  me  when 
I  thought  I  was  beginning  to  know  him  well,  '  You 
must  not  think  you  know  all  about  Brown  because 
you  see  so  much  of  him.  However  intimate  he  may 
be  with  his  friends,  there  is  quite  another  Brown  who 
takes  long  solitary  walks  on  the  Downs.' 

I  have  been  often  reminded,  when  I  reflected  on 
the  scant  public  recognition  his  rare  gifts  had  re- 
ceived, of  a  story  in  Valerius  Maximus.  I  fancied 
he  must  often  in  those  dreams  of  his  have  heard 
Apollo  saying  to  him  what  the  disappointed  musician 
said  to  his  favourite  pupil  when  the  theatre  refused 
to  applaud — cane  mihi  el  imisis  / 

A  life  so  full  of  interest,  and  so  barren  of  incident, 
is  not  an  easy  one  to  record ;  but  it  is  one  of  the 
blessings  conferred  by  great  letter-writers  that  they 
tell  the  most  difficult  part  of  their  story — the  part 
which  needs  no  external  stimulus  to  heighten  its 
interest — with  a  fullness  impossible  to  the  biographer. 
Still  any  biographical  comment  is  some  help,  and 
I  will  put  down  here  what  I  have  been  able  to 
gather  about  Brown's  early  days  and  the  home  from 
which  he  came. 

Thomas  Edward  Brown  was  born  in  the  Isle  of  Man 
on  May  5,  1830.  He  was  the  sixth  of  ten  children. 
His  father,  the  Rev.  Robert  Brown,  was  then  living  in 
Douglas,  and  was  Incumbent  of  St.  Matthew's  Church. 
Brown's  last  verses,  written  some  two  months  before 


i4  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

his  death  (a  new1  church  was  to  be  erected  on  the 
site  of  the  old  one),  showed  how  deeply  he  was 
thrilled  by  the  associations  of  that  early  time,  though 
too  remote  for  reminiscence :  for  he  was  only  two  years 
old  when  his  father  was  made  Vicar  of  Kirk  Braddan, 
near  Douglas. 

The  verses  on  '  Kirk  Braddan  Vicarage,'  as  well 
as  the  poem  called  '  Old  John,'  crowded  as  they  are 
with  reminiscence,  illustrate  with  a  more  searching 
force  and  a  greater  fullness  what  associations  meant 
to  him.  Life  '  rooted  in  the  past '  was  a  favourite 
theme,  and  what  he  would  have  called  a  back- seeking 
note  was  never  absent  from  thought  and  speech.  He 
was  often  saddened  with  the  haunting  consciousness 
of  how  little  would  survive  him  of  that  past  to  which 
he  clung  so  tenderly. 

The  Vicarage  was  a  low  white  house,  with  an 
upper  floor  that  sloped  as  in  old  inns.  The  garden 
was  in  squares  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  and  bordered 
by  flower-beds.  The  flowers  were  chiefly  moss  and 
cabbage  roses,  narcissus  and  wallflowers.  It  is  not 
unimportant  to  mention  these  things,  as  flowers  had 
an  extraordinary  fascination  for  him,  and  his  letters 
are  full  of  them — of  his  delight  in  his  first  crocuses, 
of  the  melancholy  suggested  by  snowdrops,  of  the 
delicate  bog-bean  in  the  marshes,  and  the  hopeful 
honeysuckle  so  early  in  leaf.  I  remember  bringing 
him  yellow  flags  (wild  iris)  at  Clifton,  and  his  telling 
me  at  once  of  the  one  place  in  his  island  where  he 
had  found  them.  He  thought  too  he  could  remember 
when  the  fuchsia,  now  so  abundant  there,  was  com- 

1  There  was  a  bazaar  in  aid  of  the  fund  raised  for  a  new  St. 
Matthew's ;  and  T.  E.  B.  was  asked  to  contribute  verses. 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 


paratively  rare  in  gardens.  Again,  when  I  was  staying 
at  Clevedon  in  1897,  he  told  me  to  notice  how  the 
smell  of  the  sea  mingled  with  the  smell  of  the  wall- 
flower on  the  walls  above  it. 

To  the  east  the  view  from  Braddan  Vicarage  in- 
cluded a  strip  of  sea.  The  house  looked  south-east, 
and  that  view  was  bounded  by  Douglas  Head.  There 
were  fields  beyond  the  garden — the  scene  of  the 
potato-picking  and  hay-carrying  described  in  '  Old 
John  ' — and  the  house  was  sheltered  by  trees,  ash  and 
sycamore. 

No  phrases  of  a  meagre  memoir  can  tell  how 
Brown's  boyhood  nourished  itself  in  the  uneventful 
life  at  the  Vicarage,  but  it  can  be  guessed  from  the 
two  poems  I  have  mentioned,  and  from  the  letters. 

'  Old  John,'  the  old  Scotch  man-servant,  was,  I  have 
been  told,  a  rather  crabbed  specimen  of  humanity ; 
but  it  is  clear  that  the  strength  of  his  character  and 
affections  were  of  a  kind  to  make  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  an  imaginative  temper,  and  to  such  a  temper 
his  companionship  would  be  both  enlarging  and 
enlightening. 

Brown  was  fifteen1  before  he  went  to  King  William's 
College.  Till  that  age  he  was  taught  arithmetic  and 
book-keeping  by  the  parish  schoolmaster,  and  English 
and  the  elements  of  Latin  by  his  father. 

The  vicar's  eyesight  was  weak,  and  he  made  his 
boys  read  to  him,  sometimes  four  hours  at  a  stretch. 
The  historical  English  classics  were  read  over  and 
over.  In  one  of  the  letters  speaking  of  the  value 
of  the  Waverley  Novels,  and  how  they  supplied  the 

1  He  was  not  seventeen  when  his  father  died — very  suddenly. 


1 6  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

historical  impulse,  Brown  mentions  that  he  and  one 
of  his  brothers  lined  their  bedroom  with  a  series 
of  historical  portraits.  With  these  readings  and  the 
company  of  the  Waverleys  there  would  seem  to  have 
been  no  lack  of  education  in  the  most  real  sense 
during-  this  early  period. 

The  Vicar  of  Braddan  was  no  ordinary  man.  Of 
this  his  published  sermons,  some  of  which  I  have  read, 
are  sufficient  evidence.  His  son  loved  to  tell  of  an 
occasion  when  he  noticed  a  distinguished  stranger  in 
the  congregation  arrested  and  surprised  into  earnest 
attention  by  a  preacher  so  uncommon. 

He  was  so  fastidious  about  composition  that  he 
would  make  his  son  read  some  fragment  of  an 
English  classic  to  him  before  answering  an  invitation ! 
There  were  those  who  could  not  understand  how  a  man 
so  conspicuous  for  Evangelical  piety  could  attach  so 
much  importance  to  a  question  of  style  and  manner. 
But  his  son  was  not  one  of  them.  '  To  my  father,'  he 
said, '  style  was  like  the  instinct  of  personal  cleanliness.' 

He  wrote  verse  as  well  as  prose  ;  and  the  family 
were  proud  to  remember  that  one  of  his  published 
poems  had  brought  him  an  appreciative  letter  from 
Wordsworth.  Though  Brown  did  not  rate  very  high 
his  father's  poetical  powers,  he  was  much  moved  by 
his  verses  ;  and  once  sent  me  a  hymn  of  his  father's, 
for  which,  from  its  associations,  the  bygone  manner 
being  one  of  them,  he  had  a  feeling  that  could  not  be 
described  as  mere  filial  tenderness.  He  described  his 
father's  manner  as  stern  and  undemonstrative  ;  if  he 
liked  his  son's  reading,  or  approved  of  verses  which 
he  had  set  him  to  write,  I  think  the  eulogistic  phrase 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  17 

was,  '  That  will  do,  sir ' ;  or  surprising  him  at  the 
piano  and  evidently  pleased,  he  would  merely  say, 
1  Go  on,  sir.'  But  it  seems  he  had  much  potential 
emotion,  and  this  appeared  from  time  to  time,  though 
characteristically  enough  in  the  pulpit  and  not  in  the 
Vicarage.  It  is  recorded  of  '  Old  John  '  that  he  liked 
his  master's  sermons  best  'when  he  was  crying'! 
When  Brown  spoke  of  himself  as  '  a  born  sobber,' 
perhaps  he  was  conscious  of  deriving  some  small  part 
of  his  emotional  inheritance  even  from  this  severely 
reticent  and  self-contained  father. 

Mr.  Brown  was  never  at  a  University,  and  his 
scholarly  habit  of  mind  was  therefore  a  very  striking 
proof  of  originality — such  habits  being  rarely  formed 
without  more  encouragement. 

I  may  seem  to  have  written  of  Brown's  father  at 
disproportionate  length  for  so  slight  a  memoir.  There 
is,  however,  one  very  interesting  letter  which  may  be 
the  clearer  for  this  commentary ;  and  to  me,  at  least, 
there  was  in  ah1  that  Brown  told  of  his  father  (and  he 
spoke  to  me  constantly  of  him)  that  which  shed  an 
uncommon  light  on  his  own  pieties  and  sympathies. 

Brown's  mother  was  of  Scotch  extraction,  though 
born  in  the  Island  :  and  her  son  would  often  say  how 
much  of  the  latent  Scotchman  in  him  rushed  to  the 
surface  when  he  was  in  Scotland,  or  taking  part  in 
some  Burns  commemoration. 

Mrs.  Brown 1  was  a  diligent  reader  all  her  life,  and 

1  Cf.  p.  118.  His  brother  Hugh,  there  spoken  of  as  '  his  mother's 
own  child,'  was  the  eminent  Baptist  clergyman,  Minister  of  Myrtle 
Street  Chapel,  Liverpool.  T.  E.  B.  always  spoke  not  only  of  his 
brother  being  far  better  known  than  himself,  but  as  though  he  de- 
served to  be. 

I  B 


1 8  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

a  great  reader  of  poetry.  Besides  literary  feeling,  she 
had  a  keen  wit — a  more  daring  and  masculine  wit, 
her  son  has  told  me,  than  is  common  in  women — and 
strong  practical  common  sense.  Of  her  son's  affection 
for  her,  of  his  consciousness  of  all  he  owed  to  her  and 
had  inherited  from  her,  of  his  self-denying  efforts  to 
help  her,  there  is  testimony  of  every  kind. 

As  he  became  older,  I  at  least  noticed  a  growing 
likeness  to  her  portrait. 

Brown  was  shy  and  timid,  his  sister  says,  as  a  boy, 
with  a  shyness  that  never  quite  left  him ;  but  he 
none  the  less  lived  by  choice  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
family,  and  could  do  his  lessons,  sitting  with  them 
and  joining  in  the  talk. 

It  would  seem  that  the  beginnings  of  his  life,  like 
his  life  as  a  whole,  never  needed  the  stimulus  of  events. 
Mind  and  character,  imagination  and  observation, 
fostered  as  they  were  by  his  mother's  force  and 
brightness  and  his  father's  high  standards  in  study 
and  in  taste,  grew  and  throve  on  a  smaller  experience, 
on  fewer  aids  to  reflection,  than  would  suffice  for 
natures  less  happily  constituted  and  conditioned. 

Of  Brown's  school-days  I  have  some  reminiscences 
from  three  of  his  oldest  friends — from  Archdeacon 
Gill,  Rector  of  Kirk  Andreas  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  from 
the  Archdeacon  of  Manchester,  the  Rev.  J.  M.  Wilson, 
and  from  the  Vice-Chancellor  of  Oxford,  Dr.  Fowler, 
President  of  Corpus.  Archdeacon  Gill  was  his 
1  class-fellow  and  close  friend  during  the  whole  of 
his  time  at  King  William's  College1  (1846-1849). 
He  recalls  how  Brown's  *  easy  translations  from  the 
classics  excited  the  admiration  of  the  Form,  and  how 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  19 

our  head  master,  Dr.  Dixon,  with  whom  he  was 
a  special  favourite,  praised  them.'  He  distinguished 
himself  too  in  verse  composition,  Greek,  Latin,  and 
English  ;  the  last — '  a  regular  week-day  exercise 
with  us  in  those  days — gave  promise  of  the  remarkable 
poetic  power  which  he  afterwards  developed.'  Arch- 
deacon Gill  wishes,  as  all  Brown's  friends  must  wish, 
that  these  early  efforts  had  been  preserved. 

At  school,  apparently,  '  he  would  not  attempt  to 
study  mathematics,  for  which  he  had  a  decided  dis- 
taste,' but  at  Oxford  he  laboured  at  them  painfully, 
and  in  a  letter  to  Archdeacon  Moore1  he  not  only 
speaks  of  mathematics  *  taking  up  much  of  his  time 
in  the  vacation  and  puzzling  him  unmercifully,'  but 
also  refers  in  most  grateful  terms  to  the  mathematical 
Tutor  of  Christ  Church2,  *  the  kindest  and  most  diligent 
of  men,'  who  was  then  leaving  Oxford  for  the  living 
of  Sheering  in  Essex.  '  His  kindness  to  me  was  very 
great,  and  the  patience  with  which  he  sat  down  to 
the  investigation  of  my  somewhat  puerile  difficulties, 
admirable.  I  could  not  have  experienced  a  greater 
loss.  There  was  a  kind  of  emulation  between  us ;  he 
worked,  and  I  worked,  and  his  example  had  greater 
influence  with  me  than  his  precepts.  He  likes  a  steady 
workman  in  preference,  I  fancy,  to  a  man  of  very 
brilliant  parts,  so  that  I  suited  him  pretty  well.' 

I  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  insert  this  reference 

to  college  days,  as  showing  that  the  consciousness  of 

easy  power  which  came  to  him  at  school  was  not 

enough  for  him  when  largely  by  his  own  force  of 

will  he  had  secured  an  entrance  into  the  University, 

1  July  16,  1850.  »  The  late  Canon  Hill. 

B  2 


2o  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

and  had  resolved  it  should  yield  to  him  all  it  had 
to  give.  So  strong  was  this  resolve  that  in  the  same 
letter  he  confesses  to  over- working,  'reading  some- 
times twelve  hours  a  day  and  even  more,  and  rising 
from  his  labour  with  his  brain  almost  on  fire.' 

Archdeacon  Gill  speaks  of  him  as  *  emphatically 
a  manly,  vigorous  boy,'  but  '  being  a  day-boy  he  was 
seldom  at  school  during  the  hours  of  play,  and  I  do 
not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  him  taking  part  in 
any  school  game.' 

These  reminiscences  conclude  with  a  sentence  on 
which  perhaps  the  only  comment  needed  is  that 
suggested  by  the  writer,  that  only  Brown's  friends 
knew  Brown,  and  not  all  of  them.  *  He  had  then, 
as  throughout  his  life,  a  strong  sense  of  humour,  with 
a  keen  eye  for  any  little  peculiarity  of  voice,  or  accent, 
or  manner,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  his  rather  in- 
discreet use  of  his  great  power  of  mimicry  sometimes 
gave  offence  to  those  who  did  not  know  (as  his  more 
intimate  friends  did)  how  incapable  his  kindly,  gentle 
soul  was  of  willingly  hurting  any  one's  feelings.' 

Dr.  Fowler,  who  was  Brown's  junior  by  a  year 
and  a  half,  mentions  that  among  his  school-fellows 
were  Dean  Farrar  and  Professor  Beesly.  He  himself, 
he  says,  did  not  become  acquainted  with  Brown  till 
August,  1848  (he  entered  the  school  in  January), 
when  he  was  promoted  into  the  head  Form.  'As 
soon,'  he  goes  on, '  as  we  began  to  have  our  lessons 
together,  we  seemed  drawn  to  each  other  by  some 
natural  affinity.  We  were  both  day-boys,  and,  as 
our  roads  lay  in  the  same  direction,  frequently  walked 
home  or  to  school  together.  Our  intimacy  matured, 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  21 

and  these  casual  walks  were  soon  developed  into 
afternoon  walks  on  half- holidays.  On  these  occasions, 
our  conversation  was  not  about  athletics,  as  it  might 
have  been  in  these  days,  but  about  literature,  history, 
politics,  theology,  and,  perhaps  above  all,  about  the 
beautiful  scenery  amidst  which  we  rambled.  To  those 
who  know  the  southern  portion  of  the  Isle  of  Man, 
the  attraction  of  this  last  topic  will  not  seem  strange 
when  I  mention  the  rocks  at  Scarlet,  South  Barrule, 
Langness  Point,  Derby  Haven,  Balla  Salla,  Kirk 
Malew,  Kirk  Santon,  &c.  Brown  was  already  an 
enthusiast  about  the  scenery  of  his  native  island,  and 
it  was  not  long  after  our  acquaintance  began  before 
I  detected  the  touch  of  genius  which  was  characteristic 
of  him  throughout  life.' 

Archdeacon  Wilson  was  too  much  Brown's  junior 
to  know  him  at  school,  but  his  reminiscences  seem 
almost  the  more  vivid  for  that  fact. 

'  I  can  well  remember,'  he  says,  *  as  a  small  boy  of 
eleven  just  placed  in  the  fifth  class  at  King  William's 
College,  having  Brown  pointed  out  to  me,  not  without 
awe.  He  was  said  "  to  know  more  than  any  master  "  ! 
and  "  to  have  written  the  best  Latin  prose  that  the 
University  examiners  had  ever  seen  " !  F.  W.  Farrar 
had  just  left  the  school,  and  was  remembered. 
T.  Fowler  was  there  still;  and  other  giants,  whom 
we  looked  at  with  reverence.  But  Brown  we  thought 
was  more  than  they.  Wherever  he  was,  there  was 
life  at  its  fullest.  Of  course  he  never  saw  or  spoke 
to  a  youngster  like  me. 

'  He  lived  somewhere  on  "  The  Green,"  and  walked 
up,  about  half  a  mile,  to  school.  It  was  only  then  that 


22  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

I  saw  him,  coming-  to  school  or  leaving  it,  with  his 
friends.  But  I  remember  the  shouts  of  joyous  laughter ; 
the  pause  in  the  walk;  the  head  thrown  back;  the 
grave  listening,  lips  tightly  closed ;  the  explosion  into 
words,  and  the  talk  endless,  varied,  brilliant.' 

4  This  was  from  August,  1848,  to  March,  1849,  during 
which  months  his  school-days  and  mine  overlapped. 
If  I  had  never  seen  him  again,  he  would  live  as  a 
distinct  figure  in  my  memory. 

1  Five  years  afterwards  he  was  there  at  a  prize-day, 
when  my  twin -brother  and  I  carried  off  a  good  many 
prizes.  The  great  Oxford  scholar  spoke  to  the  pro- 
mising schoolboy,  and  a  life-long  friendship  began. 

4  His  memory  was  always  fresh  in  the  College. 
A  year  or  two  later,  but  before  he  came  back  as 
a  master,  I  was  present  at  a  prize-day,  and  pro- 
posed cheers  for  some  distinguished  old  members  of 
the  school.  Major  Anderson  was  present,  who  so 
gallantly  defended  Lucknow,  and  Captain  Griffiths, 
my  own  contemporary,  another  hero  of  the  Mutiny. 
But  I  let  myself  go  about  Brown  also  ;  and  the  school 
showed  that  they  had  not  forgotten  him,  and  that  he 
was  among  their  demigods.' 

I  may  mention  that  Mrs.  Williamson,  Brown's  sister, 
well  remembered  this  occasion — the  eulogy  and  its 
reception. 

Brown  left  school  in  March,  1849,  and  read  by  him- 
self at  home  till  he  went  up  to  Oxford  in  October. 

The  interval  seems  to  have  been  an  anxious  one, 
and  even  before  he  left  school  he  was  considering  his 
future  and  writing  about  it  to  his  revered  friend 
Archdeacon  Moore.  His  gratitude  to  this  friend  was 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  23 

warmly  expressed  at  the  time,  but  he  has  left  a  more 
enduring  record  of  it  in  some  reminiscences l  written 
for  another  friend  long  afterwards. 

In  these  letters  he  discusses  ways  and  means  most 
earnestly,  asks  about  the  societies  which  help  those 
who  require  assistance  to  go  to  the  University,  and 
discusses  his  claim  on  the  fund  which  had  been  estab- 
lished in  aid  of  the  widows  and  children  of  clergy 
in  the  Manx  diocese.  In  speaking  of  this  he  is  most 
careful  to  provide  against  any  infringement  of  his 
mother's  claim.  '  I  cannot  long  remain  2  dependent 
upon  her,  and  if  I  cannot  procure,  by  some  means 
or  other,  maintenance  at  the  University,  I  must 
enter  upon  some  other  employment  less  congenial 
to  my  tastes,  but  more  satisfactory  to  my  finances 
than  literature.' 

'My  hopes  may  be,  and  indeed  I  fear  are,  too 
sanguine,  but  they  can  never  be  realized  as  a  matter 
of  course  without  making  a  trial.  .  .  .  With  regard 
to  my  age,  I  was  eighteen  last  May.' 

*  Literature  ' — '  sanguine  hopes.'  The  schoolboy 
of  eighteen  may  have  thought  of  another  and  more 
ambitious  fulfilment  even  than  a  brilliant  University 
career,  but  assuredly  the  man  had  his  share  of  the 
'employment  most  congenial  to  him,'  however  impeded 
by  others  less  congenial. 

Some  of  his  friends  had  suggested  a  Dublin  degree, 
it  being  possible  to  stand  for  examinations  for  a  degree 
there  without  residence.  In  common  with  all  who 

1  Vide  infra,  Appendix.  I  am  indebted  for  them  to  the  kindness 
of  the  Rev.  E.  Kissack,  then  Curate  of  Kirk  Andreas.  The  occasion 
was  the  dedication  of  a  memorial  in  the  church  to  the  Archdeacon. 

a  Letter  to  Archdeacon  Moore,  November  24,  1848. 


24  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

have  any  sentiment  about  a  University,  and  not  least 
with  all  who  have  a  sentiment  about  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  this  '  hocus-pocus  fashion  of  going  to  Dublin  ' 
was  '  repugnant '  to  the  boy  of  eighteen  ;  his  object 
was — '  not  a  degree  at  any  price  to  cover  my  naked- 
ness, but  the  acquisition  of  academical  learning.' 

Eventually,  through  the  efforts  of  Archdeacon 
Moore  and  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph  (Dr.  Short),  he 
was  admitted  by  Dean  Gaisford  to  a  servitorship  at 
Christ  Church.  *  The  opening  is  made,'  he  writes. 
'  I  trust  I  shall  never  forget  to  whom  I  owe  the  first 
application  of  the  wedge.' 

What  the  position  of  a  servitor  was  between 
1850  and  1852  he  himself  told  the  public  in  an  article 
in  Macmillaifs  Magazine ;  and  though  I  have  heard 
that  there  is  exaggeration  in  this  article,  there  is  no 
doubt  he  did  not  exaggerate  what  the  position  was 
to  him.  I  have  heard  him  refer  to  it  over  and 
over  again  with  a  dispassionate  bitterness  which 
there  was  no  mistaking.  There  were,  however, 
escapes.  He  must  be  thought,  he  fears,  *  a  very  dis- 
contented restless  being.  .  .  .  After  all,  the  lines 
have  fallen  unto  me  in  comparatively  pleasant 
places.'  One  of  his  letters  to  his  mother  gives  an 
account  of  a  great  walk  to  Cumnor  full  of  literary 
and  other  interest,  and  Dr.  Fowler  '  retains  a  vivid 
recollection  of  many  pleasant  rambles  with  him 
through  Bagley  Wood,  Stow  Wood  (both  of  which 
were  then  unenclosed),  over  Shotover,  Boar's  Hill, 
and  specially  through  the  Happy  Valley,  which  was 
his  favourite  walk.'  He  speaks,  too,  of  Brown's 
*  racy  anecdotes  picked  up  in  the  vacations ' ;  of 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  25 

literary  conversation ;  how  he  luxuriated  in  English 
poetry,  and  how  fond  he  was  of '  such  quaint  books  as 
Wood's  Athenae  Oxonienses! 

*  Going  on  the  river  up  Godstow  way,'  as  well  as 
other  pleasant  things,  are  recorded  in  the  letters.  Not 
the  least  is  the  kindness  and  appreciation  of  Dean 
Gaisford  '  in  all  his  dealings  with  me.'  Yet  that 
excellent  man  and  famous  scholar,  for  whom  Brown 
had  an  unbounded  admiration,  absolutely  refused  to 
nominate  him,  after  his  two  First  Classes,  to  a  Student- 
ship, though  urged  to  do  so  by  all  the  resident 
Students  (Tutors  and  Censors  included).  ' "  A  servi- 
tor," he  says,  "  never  has  been  elected  Student — ergo 
he  never  shall  be  " — an  interesting  specimen  of  ratio- 
cination ' ! !  After  this,  the  bitterness  about  the  ser- 
vitorship  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at.  At  any  rate, 
he  records  that  the  first  night  after  his  double  First 
was  *  one  of  the  most  intensely  miserable  I  was  ever 
called  to  endure.' 

Besides  the  Dean,  Dr.  Jacobson,  Regius  Professor 
of  Divinity,  was  very  kind  and  appreciative,  sending 
him  a  present  of  books  on  account  of  his  excellent 
examination  in  the  Craven  Scholarship.  It  is  also 
very  pleasant  to  hear  of '  the  delight,  the  sincere  and 
unaffected  heartiness  with  which  the  men  (both  Tutors 
and  undergrads  (sic}}  congratulated '  him  on  his 
First. 

There  was  another  kind  of  '  escape  '  on  which  he 
lays  characteristic  emphasis — music ;  perhaps  at  all 
times  the  greatest  solace  of  his  life.  '  R.  possesses 
an  excellent  piano,  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to 
find  that  I  was  more  than  a  match  for  him  on  that 


26  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

instrument.  I  do  not  know  of  anything  that  gave 
me  more  pleasure  during  the  whole  Term  than  that 
pleasant  ramble  over  the  keys,  after  my  two  months' 
fast.' 

There  is  an  allusion  in  one  of  his  early  letters  to 
his  pleasure  in  Aristophanes ;  and  I  have  heard  him 
describe  how  the  lecturer  would  leave  the  construing 
to  him  and  another  undergraduate  of  similar  vivacity, 
and  how  it  was  a  sort  of  £m8ct£i?  of  emulation  in 
reproducing  the  spirit  of  the  original — even  to  the 
giving  of  Scotch  or  Irish  equivalents  for  the  dialect 
passages. 

I  have  already  mentioned  his  close  reading  in  his 
early  Oxford  days,  but  from  this  he  desisted  in 
vacation,  at  least  latterly,  even  confessing  to  4  a  re- 
actionary fit  of  laziness  ' ;  but  it  is  characteristic  that 
the  next  sentence  speaks  of  the  helpfulness  of  the 
school  library ;  *  a  library,  by-the-bye,  which  seems 
to  exist  for  my  special  use  and  benefit,  for  I  don't 
know  of  any  one  besides  myself  who  troubles  it 
much.' 

His  feeling  about  libraries  was  always  the  same. 
Within  the  last  ten  years  I  remember  his  speaking  to 
me  of  some  eminent  person  who  had  asked  him  to 
lunch.  *  I  shall  think  quite  differently  of  him  now,' 
he  said.  *  After  lunch  he  took  me  to  his  library,  and 
left  me  there  alone,  for  two  hours.'  The  humanity 
of  this  greatly  impressed  him. 

4  His  academical  career,'  says  Dr.  Fowler,  *  may  be 
truly  described  as  a  peculiarly  brilliant  one.'  He  not 
only  obtained  a  double  First  Class  in  1853,  but 
4  found  himself  in  April,  1854,  in  the  proud  position 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  27 

of  a  Fellow  of  Oriel.'  Bishop  Fraser  was  one  of  the 
examiners,  and  long-  afterwards  spoke  to  one  of 
Brown's  friends  of  his  English  Essay  in  the  Fellowship 
examination. 

One  of  the  things  I  remember  which  he  referred 
to  with  genuine  gratification  was  an  evening  at  Oriel 
not  long  after  his  election,  when  he  sat  next  Dean 
Church,  who  consulted  him,  with  a  most  compli- 
mentary deference,  on  some  literary  point. 

*  He  never  took  kindly,'  Dr.  Fowler  thinks,  '  to 
the  life  of  an  Oxford  Fellow.'  '  He  had  no  wish,'  he 
wrote  as  an  undergraduate  to  Archdeacon  Moore, 
'  to  fatten  on  a  Fellowship,' '  an  Oxford  Tutorship  did 
not  attract  him ' ;  and  after  a  few  terms  of  private 
pupils  he  returned  to  his  native  island,  and  presently 
accepted  the  office  of  Vice- Principal  of  King  William's 
College  \ 

In  the  following  year  (1857)  Dr.  Fowler  'had  the 
pleasure  of  making  a  journey  to  the  Isle  of  Man  for 
the  purpose  of  marrying  him,  at  the  quaint  little  church 
of  Kirk  Maughold,  to  his  cousin  Miss  Stowell,  the 
daughter  of  Dr.  Stowell  of  Ramsey.' 

While  he  was  a  bachelor  master  at  King  William's 
College,  Mr.  Wilson  used  to  '  spend  short  portions  of 
Cambridge  vacations  with  him '  in  his  lodgings  at 
Derby  Haven.  *  What  do  I  recall  ?  First,  the  little 
fishing-boat  or  skiff.  In  glorious  early  mornings  or 
half-holiday  afternoons,  out  we  would  go  into  the 
"  Race  "  that  runs  off  Fort  Island  and  Langness,  with 
a  long  line  to  catch  mackerel,  in  a  breeze  that 

1  He  was  ordained  deacon  before  leaving  Oxford  :  he  did  not 
proceed  to  priest's  orders  till  near  the  end  of  his  time  at  Clifton. 


28  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

brought  the  gunwale  far  nearer  to  the  water  than 
I  liked. 

And  he'd  sit  in  the  starn  and  he'd  tuck  his  tails, 
And  well  he  knew  how  to  handle  the  sails. 

And  then  there  were  the  evenings  in  his  lodgings, 
or  elsewhere,  with  Van  Laun  or  others.  O  nodes 
cenaeque  deum!  the  cenae  simple  enough.  But 
such  stories  and  conversations,  and  involuntary 
mimicry — every  story  told  so  as  to  reproduce  the  very 
man  of  whom  the  story  was  told.  Then  he  went  to 
the  Crypt  School *,  Gloucester,  and  I  went  to  Rugby.' 

The  time  at  Gloucester  he  greatly  disliked,  though 
he  tells  his  mother  he  is  gradually  become  very 
thick-skinned  in  presence  of  annoyances ;  but  he 
does  not  deny  his  longing  for  his  island,  and  is 
4  one  of  the  most  patriotic  exiles  it  can  boast,'  quite 
thrilled  by  the  associations  of  heather  and  gorse  when 
he  finds  them  in  the  Forest  of  Dean. 

He  still  corresponded  with  Mr.  Wilson  ;  and  when 
the  Bishop  of  Hereford  (Dr.  Percival)  was  appointed 
to  Clifton  College,  he  asked  Mr.  Wilson  if  he  knew  of 
some  one  to  take  the  Modern  Side.  4 1  named  Brown  ; 
and  he  came  over  (to  Rugby)  to  be  interviewed.  He 
spent  an  evening  at  my  lodgings.  About  half  a  dozen 

1  There  is  but  one  thing  of  importance  to  chronicle  about  what  he 
called  'the  Gloucester  episode.'  The  letters  that  survive  are  not 
many,  and  not  specially  characteristic.  I  only  remember  one  phrase 
(besides  those  in  the  letters  printed)  that  could  be  so  described.  It 
is  about  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1862 — '  this  bewildering  madhouse  of 
the  arts'l  The  one  thing  of  importance  is  the  fact  that  his  friend 
Mr.  W.  E.  Henley  was  his  pupil  at  Gloucester.  I  believe  they  did 
not  meet  for  more  than  thirty  years.  Young  as  Mr.  Henley  was  at 
the  time,  Brown  had  made  an  indelible  impression,  and  they  corre- 
sponded for  years  before  they  met 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  29 

of  us  dined  there.  I  warned  Brown  that  he  must  be 
on  his  good  behaviour.  He  did  not  take  my  advice. 
Never  was  Brown  so  great.  I  still  remember  the 
Manx  songs  with  their  odd  discordant  pianoforte 
accompaniment  and  final  shriek  ;  the  paradoxes  ;  the 
torrent  of  fun  and  talk  ;  and  the  stories  : — 

Stories,  stories,  nothing  but  stories, 
Spinnin'  away  to  the  height  of  your  glories, 

Percival,  I  think,  was  the  first  to  leave,  his  usual 
gravity  having  been  completely  shattered1.  Next 
morning  I  asked  him,  not  without  anxiety,  what  he 
thought  of  Brown.  "Oh,  he'll  do,"  said  Percival. 
And  so  he  came  to  Clifton2.' 

But  this  was  not  the  only  interview.  The  Bishop 
of  Hereford  recalls  another,  and  a  characteristically 
different  one.  The  varium  et  mutabile  in  Brown 
was  called  out  by  nothing  so  much  as  by  places,  and 
the  mood  in  Rugby  was  not  the  mood  in  Oxford. 

'You  ask  me,'  the  Bishop  writes,  'about  T.  E. 
Brown's  coming  to  Clifton,  and  I  can  only  reply  that 
I  have  no  story  to  tell  about  it.  The  events  of 
thirty-six  years  have  overlaid  the  memory  of  our  first 
acquaintance.  It  will,  however,  interest  all  Cliftonians 

1  A  description  of  another  such  evening  may  be  quoted  from  some 
reminiscences  communicated  by  Canon  Rawnsley  to  Mr.  J.  R.  Mozley. 
He  recalls  '  specially  a  long  after-supper-time  at  the  Head  at  Kes- 
wick,  when  one  went  right  through  a  great  part  of  "  The  Doctor"  before 
one  thought  of  the  stars  and  the  rising  moon,  and  the  weary  landlady 
and  the  locked  house-door,  and  the  work  of  the  morrow.     And  one 
stole  back  home  a  guilty  and  ashamed  thing  to  find  the  light  above 
Skiddaw,  which  had  never  quite  died,  was  moving  towards  Helvellyn, 
and  one  felt  that  bed  was  almost  an  impossibility ;  one  had  been  so 
wakened  all  over  by  Brown's  wild  spirits,  his  loud  peals  of  laughter, 
his  merry  wit,  his  boisterous  almost  schoolboy  fun.' 

2  In  the  year  1863. 


30  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

to  know  that  it  is  to  our  friend  Archdeacon  Wilson, 
himself  destined  afterwards  to  contribute  so  much  to 
the  life  of  the  school,  that  Clifton  owes  T.  E.  B.  and 
all  the  wealth  of  associations  that  cluster  round  his 
name  and  his  memory. 

'  By  some  strange  mischance  he  had  become  Head 
Master  of  the  Crypt  School,  Gloucester.  How  he  got 
there  I  do  not  know.  The  explanation  may  possibly 
be  the  very  simple  one  that  the  brilliant  young  Fellow 
of  Oriel,  characteristically  disregarding  all  thoughts  of 
worldly  prospects,  and  yielding  to  the  impulse  of  his 
romantic  Manx  temperament,  had  married  his  cousin 
and  turned  his  back  on  Oxford;  and  so,  like  many 
another  poor  man,  had  to  take  up  such  work  as  came 
to  hand. 

'  Mr.  Wilson  having  told  me  about  him,  I  made  an 
appointment  to  see  him  in  Oxford,  and  there,  as 
chance  would  have  it,  I  met  him  standing  at  the 
corner  of  St.  Mary's  Entry,  in  a  somewhat  Johnsonian 
attitude,  four-square,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  to 
keep  himself  still,  and  looking  decidedly  volcanic  *. 

1  We  very  soon  came  to  terms,  and  I  left  him  there 
under  promise  to  come  to  Clifton  as  my  colleague  at 
the  beginning  of  the  following  Term  ;  and,  needless 

1  The  Bishop  of  Hereford  has  elsewhere  given  a  larger  meaning 
to  this  epithet.  '  To  compare  Brown  with  the  average  run  of  even 
the  most  distinguished  men  who  are  all  around  us  is  like  trying  to 
compare  the  Bay  of  Naples  with  an  English  bay  or  Scotch  loch. 
We  can  find  plenty  of  beauty  in  the  familiar  northern  scenes  ;  but 
we  miss  the  pent-up  forces,  the  volcanic  outbursts,  the  tropic  glow, 
and  all  the  surprisingly  manifold  and  tender  and  sweet-scented  out- 
pourings of  soil  and  sunshine,  so  spontaneous,  so  inexhaustibly  rich, 
and  with  the  great  heat  of  fire  burning  and  palpitating  underneath 
all  the  time.' 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  31 

to  say,  St.  Mary's  Entry  has  had  an  additional  interest 
to  me  ever  since. 

'  Sometimes  I  have  wondered,  and  it  would  be  worth 
a  good  deal  to  know,  what  thoughts  were  coursing 
through  that  richly  furnished,  teeming  brain  as  he 
stood  there  by  St.  Mary's  Church,  with  Oriel  College 
in  front  of  him — thoughts  of  his  own  struggles  and 
triumphs,  and  of  all  the  great  souls  that  had  passed  to 
and  fro  over  the  pavement  around  him  ;  and  all  set  in 
the  lurid  background  of  the  undergraduate  life  to  which 
he  had  been  condemned  as  a  servitor  at  Christ  Church. 

4  His  father's  well-intentioned  friend  the  Archdeacon 
of  Man,  knowing  the  scanty  resources  of  the  Manx 
parsonage  and  the  need  of  economy,  but  apparently 
not  knowing  either  the  temperament  or  the  genius  of 
the  boy,  had  advised  his  going  as  a  servitor  to  Christ 
Church  ;  and  purblind  teachers  let  him  go,  instead  of 
sending  him  to  some  such  place  as  Balliol,  where  he 
might  worthily  have  been  enrolled  as  one  of  the  most 
highly  gifted  of  her  scholars.  However,  I  need  not 
trouble  you  with  these  reflections,  for  they  are 
neither  a  relevant  nor  an  adequate  answer  to  your 
inquiry,  and  yet  they  are  all  I  have  to  send.' 

With  Brown's  coming  to  Clifton l  this  memoir,  as 
memoir,  may  end.  I  have  been  able  to  procure  some 
reminiscences  of  a  colleague  older  than  myself  who 
saw  much  of  Brown  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  school, 
and  also  those  of  a  distinguished  pupil.  The  first  are 
important,  not  merely  from  the  point  of  view  of 
friendship, but  because  the  writer  speaks  with  authority 

1  He  resigned  his  mastership  in  July,  1892,  and  made  his  home  for 
the  last  five  years  of  his  life  in  the  Isle  of  Man  (Ramsey). 


32  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

on  a  subject  most  vital  to  Brown's  happiness  and 
closely  bound  up  with  his  personality — that  of  music. 
The  second  are  not  less  important,  as  giving  the  judg- 
ment of  a  man  of  letters  on  Brown  as  a  teacher.  It 
was  known  that  Brown  rather  resented  his  calling,  and 
it  was  generally  believed  that  he  was  ineffective  and 
indifferent  as  a  teacher.  Boys,  I  think,  in  this  matter 
were  more  discerning  than  some  of  their  elders.  They 
were  quite  aware  that  some  lessons  did  not  interest  him, 
and  that  he  gave  himself  little  trouble  over  them  ;  but 
where  the  literature  or  the  history  was  great  they  re- 
cognized— quite  undistinguished  pupils  recognized — 
the  difference,  and  spoke  of  those  lessons  as  things  they 
could  never  forget.  Moreover,  some  of  this  testimony 
was  quite  recent  and  did  not  belong  to  his  earlier  time. 

The  boys,  however,  knew  of  him  in  other  aspects 
than  that  of  a  teacher — for  he  both  preached  and 
lectured  (on  Sunday  evenings).  Of  one  of  the  most 
impressive  sermons  I  shall  give  some  extracts  later. 
The  element  of  surprise  awaited  us  here  as  elsewhere. 
I  shall  never  forget  his  inculcating  on  the  school  the 
duty  of  leading  the  common  life :  and  how  without 
emphasis,  but  with  quiet  irony,  he  met  the  supposed 
objection — that  the  child  of  genius  could  not  be 
fettered  by  the  requirements  of  a  system — 'Be 
content,  my  friends ;  he  has  not  come  to  us  yet ' ! 

His  lectures  or  addresses— sometimes  written,  some- 
times 'inimitable  brilliant  talk' — were  equally  un- 
forgettable. I  wish  I  could  give  a  list  of  his  subjects — 
sometimes  he  talked  of  music,  sometimes  of  literature. 
(Three  were  on  Hooker,  Crabbe,  and  Quarles.)  Once 
he  told  us  the  story  of  the  Peel  life-boat,  another 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  33 

time  he  lectured  on  '  Manners.'  Archdeacon  Wilson 
reminds  me  of  its  most  characteristic  passage :  *  I  am 
certain  God  made  fools  for  us  to  enjoy,  but  there 
must  be  an  economy  of  joy  in  the  presence  of  a  fool ; 
you  must  not  betray  your  enjoyment.' 

It  did  not  matter  whether  he  was  reading  or  talking  ; 
what  was  seen  and  heard  was  an  individuality  by 
which  the  least  interesting,  least  interested  part  of  his 
audience  must  have  been  arrested  as  no  presence  had 
ever  arrested  them  before. 

What  else  there  is  to  tell  of  his  uneventful  life  at 
Clifton,  so  full  of  interest  to  himself  and  others,  and 
of  the  last  five  years  in  his  island,  must  be  left  to  the 
letters  to  tell. 

It  must  not  however  be  forgotten  that  Betsy  Lee 
and  all  his  published  poetry  were  written,  and  all 
except  his  last  volume  published,  while  he  was  at 
Clifton.  Whatever  name  and  fame  they  brought  him 
came  to  him  here :  and  the  pleasure  and  solace  of 
writing  verse  helped  more  than  most  things  to  fill 
his  life  with  content. 

'  Name  and  fame '  are  words  one  has  a  right  to  use, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  poems  cannot  be  called 
well  known.  Betsy  Lee,  when  it  appeared  in  Mac- 
millaris  Magazine  (May  and  April,  1873),  drew  from 
'George  Eliot'  a  notable  tribute,  and  that  was  far 
from  being  the  only  recognition  of  a  new  poet  by 
those  who  spoke  with  authority.  Betsy  Lee  was 
published  separately  in  1873  by  Messrs.  Macmillan, 
and  Fo'cs^le  Yarns  (including  Betsy  Lee]  in  1881 
(a  second  edition  appeared  in  1889).  Messrs.  Swan 
Sonnenschein  &  Co.  published  in  1887  The  Doctor  and 

I  C 


34  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

other  Poems.  This  volume  bore  his  name,  as  did  also 
The  M awe  Witch  and  other  Poems,  in  1889,  and  Old 
John  and  other  Poems,  in  1893.  The  two  last-named 
volumes  were  published  by  Messrs.  Macmillan. 

In  the  Quarterly  Review  of  April,  1898,  appeared 
a  notice  at  once  discriminating  and  informing  of  his 
poetry  as  a  whole. 

I  may  be  allowed  perhaps  to  say  something  from 
my  own  experience  of  the  rarest  personality  that 
it  has  been  my  fortune  to  be  acquainted  with.  In 
some  respects  I  was  disqualified  for  the  fullest  in- 
timacy. For  one  thing  I  was,  in  his  own  phrase, 
in  partibus  vaimusicorum,  and  that  was  the  gentlest 
of  his  phrases  about  this  deficiency.  Then  his  poems 
in  dialect,  though  I  enjoyed  them,  never  appealed  to 
me  as  his  last  volume  did,  and  this  should  have  been, 
to  a  less  generous  man,  another  disqualification. 

Of  the  sea  again,  the  object  of  his  passionate  devotion, 
I  knew  nothing  as  I  ought  to  know.  This  egotism  * 
is,  I  hope,  pardonable,  for  it  is  necessary  if  I  am  to 
explain  how  his  many-sided  nature  could  so  support 
an  unequal  friendship  that  the  inequality  was  hardly 
felt. 

I  had  been  some  two  years  at  Clifton  before  I  got 
to  know  Brown  :  but  after  our  intimacy  began  I 
found  fresh  occasion  for  wonder  every  year  at  some 
new  revelation  of  character  and  capacity.  The  first 

1  Mr.  Oakeley  apologizing  for  himself  may  apologize  for  others 
also  :  '  One  divines  of  one  so  rich  and  bounteous  that  to  each  of  his 
friends  he  gave  a  different  fortune.  .  .  .  Thus  I  seek  to  prepare  the 
way  for  the  otherwise  crude  remark,  "  None  knew  him  as  I  did  " ' 
(Letter  on  hearing  of  Brown's  death). 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  35 

thing  that  not  unnaturally  invited  friendship  was  his 
extraordinary  gift  of  sympathy.  The  small  things 
which  interested  his  friends — the  small  pleasures  and 
the  small  pains — were  never  below  his  reach.  The 
merest  fragment  of  *  coterie  speech '  was  worth  ex- 
plaining to  him.  You  were  so  certain  of  his  gauging 
its  significance  to  you.  Humani  nihil  a  me  alienum 
puto  was  the  motto  of  his  talk  as  of  his  letters  ;  but 
humani  is  not  enough  to  say,  for  the  personal 
interest  went  far  beyond  that,  and  this  is  one  reason 
why  so  many  of  the  letters  to  friends  can  only  be 
represented  by  extracts.  He  gave  himself  without 
stint,  his  time,  his  thought,  his  powers ;  but  the  self 
was  the  greatest  gift  of  all.  That  best  self— its 
humour,  its  brilliance,  its  infinite  variety — was  all 
poured  out  for  the  single  friend.  Indeed  the  single 
friend  was  more  likely  to  get  that  best  than  a  large 
company,  for  he  said  of  himself,  as  Cowper  did,  that 
he  had  a  large  stock  of  silence  always  at  command, 
and  this  silence  was  more  commonly  seen  in  large 
companies. 

He  was  just  the  man  for  unequal  friendships. 
Nothing  that  he  ever  said  or  did  would  hint  to  one 
that  he  thought  of  himself  as  a  shade  better  than  his 
fellows.  Only  when  one  had  time  to  reflect  on  an 
evening  with  him  or  a  walk  with  him  in  which  he  had 
flashed  into  phrase  after  phrase  or  fancy  after  fancy, 
did  it  suddenly  strike  one  that  these  novelties  were 
all  individual,  that  they  were  all  different  expressions 
of  one  and  the  same  personality,  and  that  neither 
your  optimism  nor  your  experience  had  prepared 
you  for  meeting  such  a  man  in  ordinary  life — '  a  man 
C  2 


36  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

that  would  be  incredible  had  one  not  known  him,' 
as  Fitzgerald  said  of  Spedding.  One  can  be  grateful 
now,  one  could  not  then,  for  the  illusion  of  equality 
was  never  disturbed. 

One  is  conscious  now  of  much  self-reproach, 
thinking  of  all  the  chances  of  enlargement,  and  the 
scant  use  made  of  them :  then  one  only  thought  of 
enjoyment.  They  were  times  of  refreshing  to  look 
back  to  all  one's  life : — 

Or  other  worlds  they  seemed,  or  happy  isles. 

But  apart  from  the  courtesy  and  generosity,  the 
affection  and  consideration,  which  drew  from  all  who 
called  him  friend  the  tribute  of  admiring  love,  there 
was  that  which  made  the  merest  acquaintance  stand 
at  gaze;  something  'elemental,  absolute,  infallible1 — 
to  use  three  of  his  favourite  adjectives  about  great 
men  and  great  things.  When  he  thus  '  let  himself 
go/  he  would  characterize  things  and  persons  with 
truthfulness  so  vivid  or  paradox  so  grotesque  that 
delight  was  almost  smothered  in  gasping  astonish- 
ment. His  humour  was  then  at  the  top  of  its  bent, 
and  his  mimicry  simply  indescribable.  I  have  watched 
him  while  he  altered  his  face  almost,  and  his  voice 
wholly  beyond  recognition,  when  he  was  personating 
some  one  in  a  story  he  was  telling.  Mimicry  is 
indeed  possible  to  very  common  natures ;  but  theirs 
is  '  the  mirth  without  images '  of  which  Rasselas 
speaks.  Brown's  mimicry  was  often  caricature,  but 
it  was  the  caricature  of  an  overflowing  imagination, 
not  the  caricature  of  a  photograph.  He  could  be 
Rabelaisian  too  at  times,  though  always  with  a  reser- 
vation very  characteristic  of  him.  *  There  are,'  he  said, 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  37 

4  nice  Rabelaisians,  and  there  are  nasty  Rabelaisians ; 
but  the  latter  are  not  Rabelaisians.' 

Here,  as  elsewhere,  nothing  human,  no  one  phase 
of  human  nature's  many  moods,  was  alien  to  him. 

There  was  something  too  which  seemed  to  sepa- 
rate him  from  other  men  in  the  kind  and  degree  of 
his  sympathy  with  external  nature.  He  was  himself 
conscious  of  this  to  some  extent,  and  has  expressed 
it  in  his  letters  (I  think  he  is  speaking  of  a  late 
spring  day  in  his  beloved  marsh  country,  the 
Curragh).  '  These  are  the  times,'  he  said,  •  when  my 
highest  power  comes  to  me.' 

Nor  shall  I  ever  forget  his  ecstasy  over  Fair  Head 
in  the  County  Antrim  when  we  visited  it  together 
in  1895.  It  was  worth  going  many  miles  to  see. 

This  feeling  of  intimacy  with  external  nature  was 
one  he  cherished  very  carefully.  *  I  like,'  he  said, 
1  to  stay  in  a  country  till  I  know  it  in  and  out.  That 
is  far  more  to  me  than  seeing  many  places.' 

But  whatever  this  intimacy  was,  it  was  not  like 
his  other  gifts.  One  felt  oneself  outside  ;  one  looked 
on,  one  could  not  share.  As  one  friend  said,  4  He 
seemed  in  possession  of  some  great  secret  of  nature 
which  he  was  not  free  to  impart  to  us.' 

Another  thing  that  was  quite  unlike  anything  I 
have  known  in  others  was  the  universal  quality  of 
his  literary  sympathy,  and  its  intensity.  This  did 
more  than  anything  else  to  establish  our  friend- 
ship ;  for  though  vast  tracts  of  literature  where  he 
could  '  rest  and  expatiate '  were  unknown  to  me, 
my  own  meagre  domain  seemed  larger  and  richer 
when  he  expounded  our  common  affection  for  it. 


38  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

'Expounded'  is  a  very  poor  word— tkough  it  is 
something  to  have  the  best  reasons  given  for  the 
faith  that  is  in  you,  even  when  you  feel  your  instinct 
beyond  and  above  criticism. 

But  really  it  was  nothing  that  could  be  called 
exposition.  It  was  the  spontaneous  outflow  of  feeling 
deeper  than  one's  own  because  the  whole  nature  was 
deeper : — 

And  while  we  others  sip  the  obvious  sweet, 

Lo!   this  man  hath  made  haste 

And  pressed  the  sting  that  holds  the  central  seat. 

It  was  no  creed  to  be  recited,  it  was  an  atmosphere 
in  which  he  lived  and  breathed,  that  highest  of  all 
literary  atmospheres,  where  the  ingredients  are  all 
the  humanities — love,  respect,  admiration,  all  clinging 
to  the  most  sacred  tradition  of  civilized  man.  '  Suffer 
no  chasm,'  he  once  said  to  the  school  in  a  sermon, 
'  to  interrupt  this  glorious  tradition.  .  .  .  Continuous 
life  .  .  .  that  is  what  we  want — to  feel  the  pulses 
of  hearts  that  are  now  dust.' 

'  I  could  cry,'  he  once  said  to  me, '  over  those  old 
classical  hymns  of  Addison.'  The  classical  conven- 
tions moved  him  even  while  they  amused  him.  He 
smiled,  but  the  water  stood  in  his  eyes. 

I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  known  a  pleasure  greater 
than  finding  some  great  or  good  thing  in  literature 
that  he  did  not  happen  to  know.  Such  occasions 
were  few,  as  might  be  expected,  but  the  pleasure 
was  hardly  less  when  one  revived  an  old  affection 
for  him — a  forgotten  favourite. 

And  his  analysis  of  beauties — when  he  would  stoop 
to  analysis,  for  he  did  not  love  'to  reason  about 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  39 

beauties  rather  than  to  taste  them ' — never  failed  to 
satisfy. 

I  once  drew  his  attention  to  the  beautiful  phrase 
of  Steele,  in  the  Tatler,  about  Favonius,  the  good 
clergyman,  leaving  the  house  of  mourning  '  with 
such  a  glow  of  grief  and  of  humanity  upon  his 
countenance.'  '  Ah,  yes ! '  he  said,  '  and  it's  the 
hendiadys  that  does  it ! '  and  one  feels  at  once  how 
poor  h^^1J^ane  grief  would  sound  beside  it ! 

But  independently  of  literature  all  associations 
moved  him,  and  not  his  own  merely.  That  is  why 
'  coterie  speech  '  had  such  a  value  for  him.  And  he 
loved  to  have  the  fact  or  the  legend  out  of  which  it 
sprang  recovered  for  him  with  all  its  details.  There 
was  something  specially  delightful  in  the  ease  with 
which  he  could  transplant,  from  another's  experience, 
a  story  or  a  saying,  and  regrow  it  in  his  own  more 
fertilizing  soil.  It  is  no  wonder  that  he  had  friends, 
for  such  common  possessions  rivet  an  intimacy  as 
nothing  else  can. 

His  own  associations  were,  it  need  hardly  be  said, 
all  deep-rooted.  His  favourite  Virgilian  saw  was 
Antiquam  exquirite  matrem,  and  he  seemed  to 
think  the  chief  value  of  his  poems  was  '  the  cairn  of 
memories '  he  had  built  in  them.  Even  quite  local 
and  temporary  associations  were  sacred  to  him.  He 
saw  his  past  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole,  and  the 
historical  past  he  saw  in  the  same  way.  4  In  reading,' 
he  once  said,  l  let  heart  reach  to  heart  across  all 
obstacles  of  time,  and  manners,  and  ideas.' 

I  cannot  but  think  that  this  was  a  great  part  of  the 
meaning  he  assigned  to  his  favourite  text :  '  Keep 


40  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

thy  heart  with  all  diligence.'  He  knew  that  the  bent 
of  intellect  might  shift  with  reading  or  experience ; 
temper  might  be  liable  to  moods,  and  disappoint 
either  himself  or  others ;  but  this  other  thing — the 
TO  KupiwrciTor,  the  heart,  the  proper  self — 

That  imperial  murex  grain 
No  carrack  ever  bore  to  Thames  or  Tiber — 

this  must  be  cherished  for  what  it  was,  must  be  still 
in  a  sense  what  it  was— a  self  that  vicissitude  could 
not  invade. 

It  was  naturally  not  a  thing  he  spoke  of,  but  there 
were  hints  of  it,  to  those  who  knew  him,  even  in  his 
talk ;  and  in  some  of  the  letters,  and  in  many  of  the 
poems  in  his  last  volume,  it  needs  little  interpretation 
to  discover  it.  From  the  heart  in  this  sense  it  is  an 
easy  transition  to  the  *  kind  of  enthusiasm'  with  which 
uncommon  men  'mingle  their  ideas.'  In  family 
affection,  in  friendship,  in  patriotism  local  or  national, 
the  sentiment  is  the  same.  It  is  not  only  quorum 
pars  magna  fui;  it  is  also,  '  what  these  things  have 
made  of  me  nothing  can  unmake.'* 

Under  the  impelling  force  of  these  associations  he 
unshrinkingly  confessed  himself  emotional,  even  using 
the  half-humorous  phrase  I  have  already  quoted — 
1 1  am  a  born  sobber.' 

His  fine  curiosity  was  insatiable,  but  this  was  some- 
thing related  in  no  way  to  advances  in  knowledge  or 
new  refinements  in  feeling.  It  was  somethingpermanent 
and  central  to  himself  and  yet  universal  in  its  range. 

There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  George  Eliot's 
Middletnarch,  where1  Dorothea,  asked  what  she  is 

1  Quoted  from  memory.    The  ipsissitna  vtrba  run  thus  :  '  Dodo,  how 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  41 

thinking  of,  says,  'All  the  troubles  of  all  the  people 
in  the  world.'  Now  it  might  be  thought  that,  with 
Brown's  high  spirits  and  recklessly  gay  humour,  this 
is  a  singularly  inapposite  quotation.  But  really  it  is 
very  relevant.  I  have  never  known  a  man  with  so 
wide  an  intellectual  range,  or  of  such  infinite  bright- 
ness, who  could  be  so  deeply  saddened  by  his  own 
sympathies — sympathies  reaching  far  back  into  his 
own  far  past,  or  extended  to  present  trouble,  ever  so 
remote  from  himself. 

This,  I  think,  is  the  heart  which  he  tried  to  keep 
with  all  diligence — the  depth  which  he  suffered  no 
excursions  of  fancy  to  explore,  no  exuberance  of 
spirits  to  disturb. 

Of  his  life  in  this  region — of  the  life  of  his  lonelier 
self— not  many,  if  any,  of  his  friends  were  permitted 
to  see  much,  yet  it  interfered  in  no  way  with  his 
readiness  to  render  all  kinds  of  services.  Those 
services  rendered  in  abundant  measure  were  much : 
but  to  possess  a  sense  of  security,  a  recognized  claim 
to  divide  pleasures  and  pains  without  misgiving,  was 
a  thing  beyond  all  price  in  friendship.  That  this 
should  be  possible  to  one  who  had  so  full  a  life  of  his 
own  unshared,  and  not  to  be  shared  by  others,  means 
a  very  rare  unselfishness.  Nor  did  he  suffer  such 
claims  to  be  weakened  by  absence.  For  the  five 
years  that  remained  to  him  after  he  returned  to  his 
island  his  letters  never  failed.  He  was  never  oppressed 
by  the  labour  of  keeping  friendships  in  repair,  but 
rather  exhilarated ;  at  any  rate  he  left  his  friends 

bright  your  eyes  are !  .  .  .  I  wonder  what  (has  happened).'  .  .  . 
'  Oh,  all  the  troubles  of  all  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth.' 


42  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

exhilarated  and  something  more.  Those  who  re- 
ceived his  letters  found  in  them  such  a  store  of  help, 
such  a  heightening  of  the  interest  of  life,  that  to 
others — to  those  who  had  not  enjoyed  his  personal 
talk — it  might  have  seemed  that  little  could  have  been 
added  by  actual  intercourse. 

Brown  was  a  keen  critic  of  all  his  friends,  and  did 
not  deny  himself  amusement  at  the  weaknesses  and 
limitations  of  those  he  cared  for  most.  But  there  was 
one  thing  about  him  not  often  found  in  men  who 
indulge  in  the  mood  of  Democritus.  I  mean  the 
willingness  to  take  trouble  for  those  whose  failings 
amused  him,  even  when  he  thought  there  was  some 
connexion  between  their  unwisdom  and  their  need. 
I  don't  think  he  could  for  the  life  of  him  help  giving 
free  play  to  his  humour,  but  it  never  weakened  his 
friendship.  He  was  even  so  anxious  in  their  behalf 
as  to  transform  himself  on  occasion  into  what  he 
once  called  '  Machiavelli  Brown,'  and  draw  on  his 
experience  to  play  the  diplomatist  in  their  interest. 
His  courtesy  would  never  suffer  him  to  be  the  candid 
friend.  In  these  matters  he  contended  for  what  he 
called  'the  finest  Keltic  make-believe,'  and  was 
indignant  at  its  being  confounded  with  'humbug.' 
('  Oh,  those  English ! '  he  would  say.)  To  him  this 
'  finest  make-believe  '  was  a  part  of  the  code  of  good 
manners,  and  if  he  criticized  his  friends  to  others, 
they  knew  better  than  those  others  how  little  it 
impaired  his  power  to  love  and  his  eagerness  to 
serve. 

To  manners  he  always  attached  a  value  which  is 
less  common  in  these  days.  '  If  I  lose  my  manners/ 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  43 

he  said  once  over  some  trivial  forgetfulness,  '  what  is 
to  become  of  me  ? ' 

But  the  thing  that  will  stay  longest  with  his  friends 
was  the  amount  and  variety  of  positive  pleasure  that 
he  gave  them.  Five  minutes  in  his  company  was 
a  more  exhilarating  tonic  than  any  that  could  be 
devised.  Tonic  is  the  right  word,  for  more  than  one 
reason,  when  his  talk  was  of  literature  :  for  his  sanity 
was  as  steadying  to  the  judgment  as  his  enthusiasm 
was  lifting  to  the  spirit.  If  there  was  a  side  of 
literature  that  appealed  less  to  him  than  to  others, 
I  can  find  no  word  less  inclusive  than  catholic  to  do 
justice  to  his  range  of  sympathy.  And  his  catholicity 
of  taste  was  especially  remarkable  in  one  whose 
strength  of  imagination  might  be  supposed  to  have 
made  him  somewhat  impatient  of  the  ancient  ways 
and  the  less  ambitious  ages  when  writers  were  con- 
tent '  to  dwell  quiet  and  secure.'  While  he  welcomed 
power  in  every  new  direction,  his  faith  in  the  old 
teachers,  the  paiici  quos  aequus  atnavit  luppiter, 
never  swerved. 

In  the  sermon  from  which  I  have  already  quoted  he 
preached  his  own  practice.  'Those,'  he  said,  'who 
have  been  and  are  great  amongst  us  are  those  who 
have  dwelt  most  reverently,  or  at  least  most  habitually, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  sky-pointing  pyramids  of 
the  past.' 

But  I  must  not  go  on.  I  have  already,  perhaps, 
said  too  much,  though  in  another  sense  too  much 
could  not  be  said. 

Tis  true ;   but  all  too  weakly  said  ; 
'Twas  more  significant,  he's  dead. 


44  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

There  is  a  simple  sentence  in  another  letter-writer, 
not  often  so  simple,  who  very  occasionally  recalls 
Brown,  though  with  a  difference ;  and  this  sentence — 
it  is  Charles  Lamb's — tells  Brown's  friends  better  than 
any  words  of  their  own  what  their  individual  loss  is, 
and  why  they  can  never  see  his  place  filled  for  them. 

'One  sees  a  picture,  reads  an  anecdote,  starts  a 
casual  fancy,  and  thinks  to  tell  of  it  to  this  person 
in  preference  to  every  other.  The  person  is  gone 
whom  it  would  peculiarly  have  suited — it  won't  do 
for  another.' 

MR.  E.  M.  OAKELEY'S  REMINISCENCES. 

Looking  back  on  my  friendship  with  Mr.  Brown, 
which  began  a  very  few  days  after  I  became  a  Clifton 
master  in  1867,  and  knew  no  break  till  the  great 
break  in  October,  1897,  I  realize  only  too  keenly,  now 
that  he  is  gone,  '  the  difference  to  me.'  Many,  of 
course,  are  feeling  the  same ;  yet  not  quite  the  same, 
for  it  may  easily  be  guessed  that  a  nature  so  rich 
and  so  bounteous  as  his  showed  a  different  side  to 
each  friend,  so  that  many  can  without  arrogance  say, 
4  No  one  knew  him  as  I  did.'  Of  late  I  had  seen  him 
but  seldom,  but  I  continued  to  hear  from  him  pretty 
often  till  very  near  his  end ;  and  for  the  rest,  as  he  once 
wrote  to  me, '  there  are  people  with  whom  to  coexist 
is  life  :  no  need  to  see  them  or  talk  to  them.  All  that 
is  needed  is  just  to  think — say  in  your  bath  at  7  a.m. — 
"  Hugh  also  is." ' 

Mr.  Brown's  love  of  music  was  a  side  of  him 
often  turned  to  the  present  writer,  and  music  was 
a  chief  corner-stone  of  our  friendship.  In  early 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  45 

Clifton  days  I  induced  him  to  go  up  wich  me  to  hear 
Clara  Schumann  play;  a  memorable  experience  in 
many  ways,  not  least  from  our  accidentally  sitting  next 
to  Madame  Jenny  Lind-Goldschmidt,  to  whom,  as  he 
reminded  me  as  lately  as  October,  1897,  I  took  the 
opportunity  to  introduce  him.  At  about  the  same 
date,  by  the  way,  we  went,  with  Dr.  Percival,  to  see 
the  Clifton  match  at  Lord's,  the  chief  hero  of  which 
was  just  then  the  pride  of  Brown's  House  at  Clifton, 
as  afterwards  of  his  College  and  University 1.  T.  E.  B. 
was  in  great  force,  and  lit  up  the  dingy  dining-room 
of  our  hotel — quite  innocent  then  of  to-day's  Asiatic 
splendours — with  many  a  flash  of  that  '  lightning  of 
the  brain,  lambent  but  innocuous,'  that  one  associates 
with  his  conversation. 

It  must  have  been  in  that  same  summer  that  I  used 
to  sit  with  him  in  the  Fifth  Form  room  of  his  house, 
in  the  holidays  an  uncommonly  secluded  sanctum,  in 
order  to  discuss  words  and  tunes  for  the  School  Hymn 
Book,  on  which  a  committee  of  masters  and  boys  had 
been  for  some  time  at  work.  It  was  then  and  there 
that  Wesley's  fine  hymn,  with  the  recurring  line  '  Give 
me  thy  only  love,'  was  re-edited  to  make  it  fit  Bach's 
soaring  music,  which  seems  to  yearn  to  bear  on  its 
wings  some  such  refrain  as  Wesley's.  To  the  same 
symposia  the  hymn  book  owes  Mr.  Brown's  noble 
Ascension-tide  hymn.  It  was  agreed  that  the  tune  of 
4  Es  ist  das  Heir  must  be  secured  for  the  book  ;  but 

1  Cecil  William  Boyle,  the  '  dear  hero '  of  the  lines  in  a  recent 
Spectator  by  his  school-fellow,  T.  Herbert  Warren,  the  President  of 
Magdalen.  He  fell  at  Boshof,  April  5,  1900, 

'  Captaining  men  as  once  he  captained  boys.' 


46  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

the  pondeious  unwieldiness  of  the  German  original, 
which  refused  on  almost  any  terms  to  be  carried  over 
or  coaxed  into  English,  suggested  the  fortunate 
alternative — that '  some  one'  should  write  a  new  hymn, 
suitable  to  the  peculiar  sentiment,  and  especially  to 
the  pathetic  closing  cadence,  of  the  music.  No  other 
hymn -tune  was  so  dear  to  him,  except  perhaps  the 
well-known  Passion  Chorale^  of  which — in  a  blue- 
pencilled  note  one  Monday  morning  during  first 
lesson — he  sent  me  the  following  *  appreciation  ' : — 


Epovvos.  .  .  . 

(Yesterday,  when  you  were  playing  the  miraculous 
HauptV) 

Chance-child  of  some  lone  sorrow  on  the  hills, 
Bach  finds  a  babe  ;   instant  the  great  heart  fills 
With  love  of  that  fair  innocence, 
Conveys  it  thence, 

Clothes  it  with  all  divinest  harmonies, 
Gives  it  sure  foot  to  tread  the  dim  degrees 
Of  Pilate's  stair.     Hush!    Hush!     Its  last  sweet 

breath 
Wails  far  along  the  passages  of  death. 

_   E^  N    ,1    j    ^^PJPI 

Time  Eternity 

I  quote  this  as  a  specimen  of  the  writer's  method  of 
musical  criticism  ;  a  method  equally  remote  from  the 

1  The  version  played  was  No.  97,  vol.  v,  of  Bach's  organ  works. 
This  is  mentioned  out  of  kindness  prepense,  that  Bach-lovers  may 
turn  to  it  again.  They  will  have  their  reward !  The  melody 
originally  belonged  to  a  popular  sixteenth  century  love  song. 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  47 

usual  style  of  describers  of  music,  the  '  piling  of 
honey  on  sugar  and  sugar  on  honey '  (as  Lamb 
writes  in  a  slightly  different  connexion),  as  from  the 
heresy  of  the  Leit-Motif  fanatics  who  used  to  pester 
Mendelssohn  to  tell  them  '  the  meaning '  of  his  Songs 
without  Words.  So  far  was  Brown  from  desiring  to 
trace  '  meanings  '  in  instrumental  music,  that  even  in 
the  vocal  works  of  the  great  composers  he  held  that 
the  so-called  setting  was  distinctly  '  the  predomi- 
nant partner,'  and  that,  except  as  a  crib  for  the  un- 
learned, the  words  would  often  be  better  away.  Thus, 
for  instance,  he  writes  of  his  own  beautiful  translation 
of  those  lines  of  Eichendorff  which  Schumann  has  im- 
mortalized by  linking  them  to  his  Friihlingsnacht : — 

'  Here  is  the  Friihlingsnacht — might  be  better, 
though  I  think  it  is  not  exactly  bad.  .  .  . 

1  Wandervogel  is  a  lovely  word.  I  suppose  he  does 
not  mean  birds  in  his  garden,  but  birds  passing  over 
it,  invisible,  though  audible  to  him.  "  Birds  of  passage  " 
is  not  altogether  prosaic— incline  thine  ear,  perpend, 
what  thinkest  ?  In  the  second  verse  I  have  imported 
a  little  wild-fire.  The  tune  seems  to  comport  it ;  but 
"  reappears  "  is  an  old  rhyme-famtt/us,  and  it  does 
not  either  comport  or  support  the  ritardando  as 
well  as  Mondes  Glanz  herein.  In  fact  I  feel  the 
German  even  to  be  rather  lacking  .  .  .  and  taking  it 
altogether,  don't  you  regard  this  song  of  Schu- 
mann's as  transcending  words — Uber  Worte) — Procul, 
O  Procul/  The  poets  are  not  in  it.  I  warn  them 
off  the  ground.  When  Schumann  is  in  this  mood, 
they  had  better  retire.  The  mysteries  are  too  sacred, 
the  pudicitia  of  the  absolute  ought  not  to  be  violated. 


48  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

It  is  divine — divine !  Look  at  those  wretched  words 
as  they  sidle  up  in  their  smugness  to  the  heavenly 
creature  !  What  earthly  right  have  they  there  ?  She 
does  not  want  them.  "  A  parcel  of  the  purest  sky," 

— that  is  the  Fruhlingsnacht.    And  this libretto 

to  think  of  holding  his  vulgar  umbrella  over  her — 
faugh z ! '  The  translation  follows : — 

A  NIGHT  OF  SPRING. 
O'er  the  garden,  northward  yearning, 

Birds  of  passage  on  the  wing 
Give  the  note  of  Spring's  returning, 

And  the  odours  of  the  Spring. 
Shall  I  shout  for  very  gladness, 

Shall  I  drown  my  eyes  in  tears, 
Is  it  mirth,  or  is  it  madness, 

When  the  spring-tide  reappears  ? 
Moon  and  stars  proclaim  her  willing, 

Whisp'ring  groves  their  vows  combine, 
And  the  nightingales  are  thrilling — 

1  She  is  thine,  ah,  she  is  thine ! ' 

Here  is  his  translation  of  Meine  Rose,  another  of 
Schumann's  loveliest  songs : — 

MY  ROSE. 

When  Summer's  sun  is  glowing, 
And  roses  still  are  blowing, 
If  but  I  note  one  drooping, 
Its  lovely  head  down  stooping, 

1  To  somewhat  the  same  effect  Philipp  Spitta  writes :  '  In  Schu- 
mann's songs  the  function  of  the  pianoforte  is  to  reveal  some  deep 
and  secret  meaning  which  is  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  express.' 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  49 

I  bring  with  timely  shower 
Refreshment  to  my  flower. 
Blest  Rose,  that  art  the  dearest ! 
Heart's  Rose,  the  sweetest,  nearest, 
O'erwhelm'd  with  care  and  sadness, 
Ah  me !   the  joy,  the  gladness 
If  at  thy  feet  outpouring 
My  soul,  I  lay  adoring! 
Life's  self  I  would  surrender 
To  see  thee  rise  in  splendour1. 

Brown's  method  of  musical  criticism,  in  which 
(naturally !)  the  seemingly  '  far-fetched '  fancies  of  the 
poet  convey  an  impression  far  more  adequate  than 
the  usual  attempt  to  describe  the  indescribable  by 
mere  inventory,  or  mere  superlatives,  may  be  further 
illustrated  by  the  following  description  of  a  Crystal 
Palace  concert : — 

1 .  .  .  I  have  said  nothing  about  the  choral  annexe  to 
the  ninth  symphony.  No  circumstances  could  be  more 
unfavourable  to  a  choir  ;  when  your  ears  have  been 
stung  for  upwards  of  an  hour  by  the  most  delicious 
string  poison,  'the  human  voice  divine'  is  simply 
grotesque.  There  is  one  passage  where  the  tenors 
lead  off.  Well,  it  sounded  almost  like  a  poor 
melancholy  laugh,  as  of  idiots.  And  indeed  they 
had  not  even  their  note  quite  true.  Then  you 
remember  a  chorus  takes  off  suddenly,  and  leaves 
a  quartet  exposed  in  mid-field.  This  is  a  most 

1  The  original  seems  to  express  despair  of  this  result.     I  have  not 
made  it  so  strong.     Any  man,  reducing  himself  to  a  watering-pot,  has 
a  right  to  expect  success,  or  something  of  the  kind. — T.  E.  B. 
I  D 


5o  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

exquisite  machine,  to  my  mind.  It'  is  as  if  a 
thunderstorm  suddenly  cleared  away,  and  four  stars 
shone  out  in  a  sweet  quaternion  of  solitude.  It  ought 
to  be  that.  A  calm  soft  kiss  on  the  forehead  of 
retreating  turbulence.  But  what  did  these  people 
do  ?  It  was  Winkle  torn  from  Weller.  They  seemed 
so  frightened:  quite  ghastly.  Nothing  to  sit  down 
on!  And  in  such  impart  materiel f  Another  stuff; 
not  four  threads  spun  finely,  deftly  forth  from  the 
big  choral  web,  and  streaming  on  a  summer  sigh 
of  balm — but  dingy  floccy  alien  tatters  tossed  up 
obscenely  from  a  dust-heap.  Yet  Alversleben  seemed 
not  inadequate;  the  others,  so  help  me  sweet 
Cecilia,  did  not  know  "  wherefore  they  were  come 
together  " ! ' 

And  of  another  performance  of  the  same  sym- 
phony : — 

'  The  absolutely  celestial  coda  was  now  and  then 
as  unerring  as  I  could  desire  ;  but  once,  if  I  mistake 
not,  nearly  fell  to  pieces.  It  was  a  fearful  moment ; 
as  if  your  dearest  and  loveliest  on  earth  were  suddenly 
to  totter  on  the  verge  of  madness,  and  say  wicked 
and  impure  words.  .  .  .  Ophelia  ...  I  felt  quite 
giddy.  But  it  was  soon  over,  and  the  darling  shone 
out  bright  and  calm  and  peerless  as  ever. 

4  What  heavenly  peace !  What  healing  of  all 
wounds  !  Binding  of  all  broken  hearts  !  Everlasting 
remedium  amoris  /  I  certainly  found  myself  pray- 
ing, and  that  fervently.  With  such  a  Christ  to  clasp 
to  her  withered  breast,  what  need  the  poor  old  world 
care  for  Strauss  and  all  his  angels  ? ' 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  51 

At  the  rehearsal  of  this  concert : — 

'  It  was  even  more  interesting"  than  the  concert. 
Manns  unfettered  by  the  proprieties,  mad,  springing 
to  his  feet,  hurling  himself  at  the  band  like  a  tiger, 
like  a  thunderbolt,  like  a  conical  bullet,  like  a  little 
black  devil!  A  splendid  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
sight.  I  saw  his  dodges,  and  more  or  less  compre- 
hended them.' 

At  a  Crystal  Palace  organ  recital : — 

'  There  was  Mr.  X.  pounding  away  at  some  scream- 
ing indecency.  I  waited  for  his  second  piece,  though 
much  dejected,  but  as  it  was  only  some  sugary  or 
rather  rum -and- sugary  Operatic  rifacimento,  I  came 
away,  and  left  him  up  to  his  ears  in  Organ  treacle.' . . . 

(He  returned,  however ;  for — ) 

1  Smart's  Andante  in  D  is  a  pretty  thing  enough, 
not  so  much  crisp  as  mincing.  In  our  poor  friend's 
hands  it  assumed  an  air  of  the  fatuously  dissolute.' 

On  British  musical  taste,  circa  1870,  he  writes: — 

4  We  have  been  getting  fonder  of  music,  and  of 
good  music.  In  some  fashion — rather  haphazard, 
perhaps — we  have  been  learning  to  know  good  music 
when  we  hear  it.  No  doubt  the  middle-class  draw- 
ing-room, that  last  fortress  of  error,  is  much  where 
it  was.  Time-honoured  shrine  of  die-away,  sigh- 
away  adolescence,  it  still  resounds  to  the  strains  of 
the  Valerie  Whites  and  the  Molloys.  But  the  Teu- 
tonic invasion  has  told ;  Mendelssohn  has  almost 
obtained  the  Britannic  civitas,  and  even  Schumann 
stands — uncertain,  it  is  true — upon  the  threshold. 
And  if  we  pass  from  the  drawing-room  to  the  concert 

D  2 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 


hall,  the  state  of  affairs  is   positively   encouraging. . 
Here  are  great  organs  magnificently  played ;    here 
is  Bach ;  here  is  a  band  ;  here  are  Beethoven,  Berlioz, 
Wagner,  all  the  gods.'  .  .  . 

In  1894  Brown  made  a  much-looked-forward-to 
pilgrimage  to  Bayreuth ;  of  which  he  writes  (before 
starting) : — 

'  I  am  to  hear  Lohengrin,  Tannhauser,  and  Par- 
sifal (the  last,  twice).  This  will  be  a  good  $&KTf.\.v 
in  the  Wagnerian  Siloam.' 

(From  Bayreuth: — ) 

'  I  am  waiting  here  for  a  noch  einmal  of  Parsifal. 
But  you  may  depend  on  it  that  the  cultus  is  a  little 
unsound.  Talk  is  big,  and  make-believe  bigger ;  but 
they  don't  do  the  business  so  superlatively  well  by 
any  means.'  .  .  . 
.(  (After  the  noch  einmal: — ) 

'  Won't  do !  Parsifal  is  an  impossibility,  and  I  am 
hugely  disappointed.  .  .  .  Set  to  your  seal  that  the 
musical  drama  is  a  tremendous  but  hopeless  aspira- 
tion. Fall  back  upon  Beethoven  and  the  symphonic 
form,  and  take  courage.  I  don't  wonder  at  men 
thinking  that  this  is  a  path  that  no  one  can  tread 
after  Beethoven.  But  this  is  wrong.  The  world  is 
open  :  we  can  yet  gather  the  flowers  of  Heaven.  Not, 
however,  in  this  field  of  combination  and  complication 
will  they  ever  be  gathered.  .  .  .  Wagner's  Wahn — 
exactly  so,  a  noble  Wahn^  but  brings  me  no  Friede 
as  Wagner  says  it  did  to  him— will  bring  Friede  to 
no  child  of  man  who  is  born  with  wings,  however 
imperfectly  developed1.' 

1  Cf.  letter  from  Bayreuth,  Aug.  7,  1894,  vol.  ii,  p.  51. 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  53 

(After  returning  : — ) 

4  Have  you  heard  that  there  are  to  be  orchestral 
Wagner  concerts  in  London  next  November,  the  first 
to  be  conducted  by  Siegfried  Wagner  ?  That  is  just 
what  I  should  like.  The  man  Curtius  is  trying  to 
arrange  with  Madame  Wagner  for  the  production 
of  substantial  portions  of  Parsifal.  Orchestral,  re- 
member! That's  the  point.  As  to  their  lewdness 
and  superfluity  of  scenic  naughtiness,  may  I  never 
again  come  within  a  hundred  miles  of  them  ! ' 

From  Music  to  Mimicry,  even  if  the  two  gifts 
be  not  wholly  unrelated,  may  perhaps  seem  an 
abrupt  transition.  But  however  that  may  be,  one 
cannot  long  think  of  Brown  without  recalling  his 
mimicry.  (His  own  abrupt  transitions  by  the  way — 
say  from  Bach  to  Balzac — used  to  be  sufficiently 
amusing!)  Was  there  one  of  his  acquaintances 
whom  he  could  not  reproduce  to  the  very  life  ? 
Nay,  his  portraiture  was  in  a  sense  more  vivid  than 
life,  because  it  gave  the  type  and  idea  of  the  man, 
and  not  merely  the  man  himself,  who  might  well 
(if  modest)  feel  himself  but  a  poor  pale  counterfeit  of 
Brown's  revised  version  of  him,  and  say  on  being  told 
of  it  (as  I  once  heard  him  say),  '  Well,  I  did  not 
say  quite  that,  but  I  would  have  said  so  if  I  had 
thought  of  it"  Quite  so  ;  in  a  word,  of  most  people 
Brown's  rendering  was  better  far  than  their  own! 
What  portraits  one's  memory  retains  of  Clifton 
masters,  boys,  servants — not  so  much  printed  there 
from  life,  as  due  to  some  of  those  almost  proverbial 
4  five  minutes  with  Brown  in  the  masters'  room  !  ' 


54  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

And  no  account  of  his  mimicry  would  be  complete, 
without  adding  that,  '  irrespective  of  sex  or  age,'  he 
could  to  a  wonderful  degree  even  look  like  his  subject 
of  the  moment. 

How  utterly  without  malice  it  all  was,  may  be 
divined  from  the  following  : — 

' .  .  .  Truest  and  dearest  of  friends !  My  foster- 
father!  Source  of  perennial  joy,  of  laughter  inex- 
tinguishable. I  have  mimicked  him  all  my  life,  and 
shall  I  forbear  now  !  Nay,  verily,  and  by  God's  help 
so  I  won't.  I  did  love  that  old  man  ;  a  delicious  old 
man  :  Silenus  trimmed  with  Socrates,  and  turned  up 
with  .  .  .  well  ...  I  don't  mind,  say  Newman/ 

Often  in  reading  his  letters  over,  one  longs  to  hear 
that  delightful  mimicry  again. 

4  Mr.  W.  was  present,  an  invaluable  grotesque.  He 
preached  the  sermon — I  will  venture  to  say  the  most 
ludicrous  performance  of  modern  times.  Anything 
like  the  hodge-podge  of  imbecility,  except  its  author, 
I  have  never  seen.  This  phenomenon  has  awaked 
my  long-dormant  faculty  of  mimicry  ;  I  can't  refrain. 
Such  a  heaven-sent  subject  is  not  to  be  lighted  upon 
every  day.' 

And  sometimes  one  does  all  but  hear  it : — 

4  Their  chief  pastor,  good  man,  is  -  well,  he  is, 
and  that  is  about  all  that  can  be  said.  They  are 
good  worthy  people ;  probably  never  open  a  book, 
a  piano,  or — yes,  he  has  opened  a  bazaar  —  two 
bazaars,  I  think.  Oh  yes !  we  can  do  that — yes ! 
"  yess,  indeet,  however." ' 


INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR  55 

REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  OLD  PUPIL. — 
BY  MR.  HORATIO  F.  BROWN. 

The  circumstances  in  which  I  came  to  be  taught  by 
T.  E.  Brown  were  exceptional.  I  and  some  other 
boys  were  going-  in  for  History  Scholarships  at 
Oxford.  The  Head  Master  allowed  us  to  attend  a 
special  history  class  under  T.  E.  Brown. 

My  recollection  is  that  his  was  the  most  vivid 
teaching  I  ever  received :  great  width  of  view  and 
poetical,  almost  passionate,  power  of  presentment. 
For  example,  we  were  reading  Froude's  History,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  how  it  was  Brown's  words, 
Brown's  voice,  not  the  historian's,  that  made  me  feel 
the  great  democratic  function  which  the  monasteries 
performed  in  England ;  the  view  became  alive  in  his 
mouth.  Again  the  same  thing  happened  when  we 
came  to  the  Reformation  as  it  showed  itself  at  Oxford  ; 
the  vivid  presentment  of  the  passions  moving  both 
sides  in  the  controversy,  and  the  lively  picturing  of 
details  (e.g.  the  Gloucester  Hall  scholar  escaping  over 
heavy  ploughed  fields),  all  set  forth  with  such 
dramatic  force,  and  aided  by  a  splendid  voice,  left 
an  indelible  impression  on  my  mind. 

He  had  such  an  appreciation  of  style  too.  I  re- 
member that  we  were  reading  what  was  then  thought 
to  be  an  exceptionally  dry  and  tough  work,  Hallam's 
Constitutional  History.  The  way  in  which  he  de- 
livered the  passage  beginning, '  But  lest  the  spectre  of 
indefeasible  right  should  stand  once  more  in  arms  on 
the  tomb  of  the  house  of  York,'  not  only  fixed  for 
ever  the  historical  importance  of  the  event  that  Hallam 


56  INTRODUCTORY  MEMOIR 

was  discussing,  but,  as  it  were,  let  me  into  Hallam 
himself,  put  one  on  terms  of  intelligence  with  the 
historian.  Of  course  it  was  all  there  before,  in  the 
book  itself,  and  other  people  had  said  it  all,  time  and 
time  again  ;  but  for  me  it  was  Brown's  voice,  Brown's 
perception,  that  made  it  real.  I  think  he  got  at  me 
through  the  imagination. 

How  he  struck  other  boys  I  don't  know,  nor  yet 
what  effect  he  had  on  his  class,  in  which  I  never 
was.  No  doubt,  in  my  case,  he  was  dealing  with 
things  he  liked  to  teach,  and  I  liked  to  learn.  He 
certainly  had  the  power  of  making  me  want  to 
please  him.  I  have  kept  all  the  essays  and  question 
papers  I  did  for  him,  with  their  quaint  hieroglyphic 
scribbles  on  the  back.  He  never  spoke  to  me  out 
of  school,  and  I  never  knew  him  at  all  privately 
or  socially  at  that  time,  but  his  personality  made 
a  great  impression ;  his  slow  sort  of  urgent  walk, 
like  Leviathan,  his  thick  massive  figure,  above  all 
his  voice.  I  used  to  see  him  in  the  distance  on  his 
lonely  strolls  about  the  downs,  and  his  figure  seemed 
to  belong  to,  and  to  explain  the  downs,  the  river, 
the  woods,  the  Severn,  and  the  far  Welsh  hills.  I 
remember  him  walking  in  the  rain,  and  looking  as  if 
he  liked  it,  as  I  did.  Personally,  at  that  time  I  was 
afraid  of  him;  but  he  stirred  fancy,  curiosity,  imagina- 
tion. I  should  say  that  his  educational  function  lay  in 
4  widening.'  He  was  a  *  widener.'  He  made  one  feel 
that  there  was  something  beyond  the  school,  beyond 
successful  performance  at  lessons  or  at  games ;  there 
was  a  whiff  of  the  great  world  brought  in  by  him. 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 


To  HIS  MOTHER. 

CHRIST  CHURCH, 

January  26,   1851. 

This  morning  the  sermon  was  preached  by  Jowett 
(not  of  South  Quay,  but)  of  Balliol  College.  This 
man  has  the  reputation  of  being  an  infidel,  simply 
because  he  has  a  profound  contempt  for  show,  and 
humbug,  and  external  rites.  His  sermon  was  beautiful, 
and  seemed  to  me  to  indicate  a  heart  sincerely 
interested  in  the  subject.  He  is  a  pale,  boyish,  almost 
effeminate-looking  man,  something  like  little  Deemster 
Drinkwater. 

I  needn't  bother  you  with  any  maudlin  laments 
about  Little-go  ;  Stokes,  indeed,  tells  me  that  he 
can't  imagine  such  a  thing  as  my  being  plucked,  but 
stranger  things  have  happened  ere  now.  .  .  .  There 
was  such  a  row  and  bustle  upon  leaving  Hugh's,  that 
I  forgot  my  black  top-coat,  the  most  indispensable 
garment a  I  possess  here.  But  here  I  must  stop. 

1  Not  without  interest  for  those  who  remember  the  writer  as  they 
first  knew  him  a  quarter  of  a  century  later.  The  italics  are  mine. 


58  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1851 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

CHRIST  CHURCH, 

February  ai,   1851. 

.  .  .  You've  no  idea  how  long  the  roads  are  drying 
here  after  a  fall  of  rain :  rain  for  five  days  is  as  good 
or  bad  as  rain  for  twenty  in  the  Isle  of  Man ;  it 
continues  near  the  surface,  and  is  not  drawn  down  by 
fine  limestone  strata  such  as  we  have.  .  .  . 

A  very  gratifying  incident  occurred  to  me  the  other 
day.  At  an  examination  which  we  had  some  time 
ago  here  I  believe  I  did  pretty  well :  shortly  after- 
wards I  was  surprised  by  Stokes  telling  me  that 
Dr.  Jacobson  [Regius  Professor  of  Divinity,  Canon  of 
Christ  Church,  &c.]  wished  me  to  call  on  him ;  well, 
I  called  twice,  but  he  was  out.  Yesterday,  however, 
as  I  was  quietly  reading  in  my  rooms,  *  tantararara, 
came  to  the  door,'  and  on  my  somewhat  gruffly  (as  is 
my  wont)  bidding  the  intruder  come  in,  in  he  came ; 
and  who  should  it  be  but  old  Jacobson  himself,  ushered 
in  with  profound  reverence  by  an  astounded  scout. 

He  stayed  some  time,  and  proved  one  of  the  freest, 
heartiest,  and  jolliest  old  fellows  I  ever  met  with. 
I  always  thought  so,  in  fact,  by  the  cut  of  his  gib. 

He  spoke  about  the  examination  \  and  told  me  that 
he  begged  I  would  accept  a  present  of  a  book  from 
him  as  a  kind  of  memorial  of  the  same.  '  In  course 
I  hadn't  no  objections,'  and  shortly  after  called  at  his 
house  where,  after  some  conversation  with  him  in  his 
study  (where,  by-the-bye,  he  appeared  in  the  graceful 
neglige  of  shirt-sleeves ! !),  he  gave  me  the  book,  a  copy 
of  Baehr's  Herodotus,  beautifully  and  strongly  bound 
1  The  Craven  Scholarship. 


i85i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  59 

in  calf  gilt,  in  4  vols.  This  was  a  really  kind  and  grace- 
ful act,  and  I  feel  much  obliged  to  the  Doctor  as  well 
as  to  the  universally  benevolent  Stokes,  who,  I  fancy, 
must  have  said  something  rather  extra  about  me. 

And  so  it  was  (as  Mary  Cowle  would  say  [Is  she 
alive  or  dead  ?]).  And  I  scud  across  the  quad  with  four 
goodly  tomes  under  my  arm  ;  and  as  I  write  they  face 
me,  about  the  handsomest  set  of  books  in  my  case, 
but  still  more  valuable  on  account  of  the  interesting 
and  pleasing  associations  connected  with  them. 

D.  will  excuse  my  not  coinciding  with  her  in  her 
view  of  the  song  she  sent :  I  don't  much  like  it  (merely 
as  poetry) ;  and  as  for  sentiment,  I  decidedly  disagree 
with  Herr  Riickert :  for  I  think  there  is  nothing  in 
any  language  so  beautiful  as  the  long-drawn  sighs  of 
passionate  melancholy  expressed  in  our  most  pathetic 
poets.  Perhaps  you  may  think  me  a  ninny,  but 
whoever  wrote  the  pleasures  of  melancholy1  (I  don't 
remember  now)  just  hit  my  notion,  if  he  did  it  well. . . . 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

CHRIST  CHURCH, 

March  n,   1851. 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter,  which  reached 
me  yesterday.  I  had  rather  expected  to  hear  before, 
but  (as  Mr.  Toots  said)  '  it's  of  no  consequence  in  the 
world,  thank  'ee.'  My  health  (always  the  primary 
consideration)  is  still  unimpaired :  and  in  fact  the 
other  day  I  felt  quite  ashamed  when,  after  a  bit  of 
a  run  in  the  wind,  I  found  a  most  delicate  crimson 
glow  spreading  over  my  exquisite  features. 
1  Cf.  Introduction,  pp.  40,  41. 


60  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1851 

A  fortnight  ago  last  Monday  I  and  another  man 
walked  about  twenty-six  miles ;  it  was  St.  Matthias' 
Day  (I'm  much  obliged  to  his  saintship),  and  therefore 
we  had  no  lectures;  so  we  took  the  whole  blessed 
day,  and  started  about  10.15  a.m.,  after  breakfast. 

First  we  went  through  Cumnor,  where  an  inn  called 
the  '  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff '  still  purports  to  be  kept 
by  one  Giles  Gosling  of  Kenilworth  celebrity.  (This 
however  I  had  been  at  before.)  Thence  we  proceeded 
to  Bablockhythe  Ferry,  where  we  crossed  the  Isis 
and  kept  on  through  very  pleasant  rural  scenery  to 
Stanton  Harcourt,  where  there  is  a  rum  old  Manor 
House,  with  a  kitchen  of  earlier  date  than  the  rest  of 
the  building — being,  in  fact,  the  kitchen  where  good 
Queen  Bess  had  her  dinner  cooked  when  staying  at 
Stanton  H.  I  never  saw  such  an  old  thing.  They 
were  killing  pigs  in  it  when  we  were  there. 

But  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  ramble  was  yet 
to  come.  A  few  yards  from  the  farm-house,  just  at  the 
end  of  the  garden,  there  is  a  beautiful  old  tower  like 
the  kitchen,  one  of  the  remains  of  the  old  Manor 
House  or  Castle :  and  in  an  upper  chamber  thereof  for 
years  dwelt  no  less  a  personage  than  Pope  the  poet. 
His  name  is  said  to  be  cut  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  one 
of  the  windows ;  but  we  could  not  find  it.  In  the 
basement  of  the  tower  is  Pope's  chapel  (he  was  a 
Roman  Catholic),  the  altar  still  standing,  and  the  arms 
of  the  Harcourt  family,  with  sundry  griffins  and 
cherubims  painted  around.  Within  a  few  yards  of 
this  tower  is  the  churchyard;  and  on  the  wall  of 
the  extreme  end  of  the  south  transept  outside  is  the 
celebrated  tablet  erected  by  Pope  in  memory  of  the 


i85i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  61 

faithful  rustic  lovers  killed  by  a  flash  of  lightning  in 
the  harvest-field.  I  dare  say  you  remember  the  lines l. 
I  forget  them  just  now :  only  I  know  one  ends  with 
the  words — 'the  flash  that  melts  the  ball.'  From 
Stanton  Harcourt  we  rambled  on  to  Eynsham,  a  small 
town  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  whence,  after  some  beer 
and  biscuits,  we  proceeded  to  Woodstock,  encountering 
some  gipsies  by  the  way,  and  skirting  along  Blenheim 
Park,  leaving  in  the  distance  the  ranger's  lodge  in  the 
park  where  the  celebrated  infidel  Rochester  died. 
And  so  we  came  to  Woodstock,  and  walked  into 
Blenheim  Park,  and  up  to  the  house.  The  house  is 
quite  a  palace;  we  only  saw  the  exterior,  but  it 
looked  like  a  pretty  large  village :  a  hatchment  over 
the  front  recorded  the  death  of  the  late  Duchess  of 
Marlborough.  There  is  a  very  beautiful  lake  in  the 
park ;  it  was  sunset,  and  the  water  was  so  quiet  in  its 
deep  loveliness ;  swans  were  rowing  along  in  stately 
pride,  but  some  unfortunate  fellows  took  it  into  their 
heads  to  have  a  fly,  and  made  precious  fools  of  them- 
selves, I  must  say.  On  the  northern  shore  of  the  lake, 
nearly  opposite  the  house,  is  '  Fair  Rosamond's '  Well ; 
a  fine  spring  comes  gushing  out  beneath  the  roots  of 
the  old  trees,  and  here  until  of  late  years,  I  believe, 
there  were  some  remains  supposed  to  be  those  of 
the  far-famed  bower  in  which  Henry  II  secluded  his 
mistress. 

The  waters  of  the  well,  if  you  give  your  face  a  good 

1  Pope  had  to  write  a  prose  epitaph  to  satisfy  Lord  Harcourt ;  the 
phrase  quoted  in  the  next  sentence  is  from  the  '  godly  one,'  the 
second  of  the  poetical  epitaphs  Pope  sent  Lady  Mary.  Pope's  Works, 
Globe  edition,  p.  485. 


62  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1851 

wash  with  them,  are  said  to  call  forth  all  manner  of 
charms  and  make  one  quite  irresistible:  of  course  I 
scrubbed  away  vigorously.  Well,  we  returned  to  our 
hostelry,  not  a  little  tired,  and  had  tea  in  the  good 
landlady's  special  little  snuggery :  and  then  a  gloomy, 
weary  walk  in  the  dark  of  six  or  seven  miles  to 
Oxford.  On  the  whole,  I  enjoyed  the  day  very  much. 
But,  alas !  we  seldom  taste  unmingled  pleasure  in  this 
world.  The  poor  fellow  who  accompanied  me  was 
laid  up  that  same  night  (not,  I  believe,  through  the 
fatigue,  but  from  a  disease  which  had  been  for  some 
time  slowly  but  certainly  mustering  its  strength 
within) ;  within  ten  days  after  our  jolly  ramble  (last 
Wednesday)  he  had  left  us.  He  died  in  his  own 
rooms ;  and  you  may  imagine  what  a  gloom  it  has 
thrown  over  us.  His  death  was  extremely  sudden. 
Poor  fellow,  his  life  was  almost  a  romance.  He  was 
the  son  of  humble  parents,  but  I  believe  was  not  on 
good  terms  with  his  family.  However,  I  must  not 
trouble  you  with  such  matters,  or  really  a  sketch  of 
his  biography  would  be  interesting. 

To  HIS  SISTER  MARGARET  (MRS.  WILLIAMSON). 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD, 

May  34,  1851. 

You  will  be  slightly  surprised,  I  dare  say,  to  see 
the  name  appended  to  this  letter.  Don't  faint  though : 
there's  no  occasion  in  the  world  for  that.  The  fact 
is  that  upon  most  mature  consideration  I  have  come  to 
the  irresistible  conclusion  that  I  must  write  a  letter : 
and  it's  so  tiresome  to  be  always  writing  to  the  same 
people,  and  I  believe  I  never  wrote  to  you  before, 


i85i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  63 

and  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry,  and — well,  I  think 
that  will  do,  and  my  excuse  is  perfect.  You  can 
expect  but  little  news  from  Oxford,  for,  notwith- 
standing the  foolish  hubbub  that  people  make  about 
us,  we  really  are  not  fond  of  novelty :  but  here  beneath 
our  old  grey  walls,  and  by  the  pleasant  watercourses, 
and  underneath  the  shadow  of  ancient  trees,  we  go 
quietly  dreaming  along,  trying  to  nurse  some  healthy 
blossoms  that  may  bear  fruit  hereafter.  But  this 
is  all  Greek  (at  least,  I  mean,  I  should  think  it  must 
be  so)  to  you,  and  so  I  must  proceed  to  apprise  you 
of  some  news  which  you  cannot  fail  to  appreciate. 
And  first  you  must  know  that  it's  summer,  and  not 
winter ;  no,  nor  spring  either ;  a  fact  of  which  I  ap- 
prehend you  may  not  be  aware  up  in  the  North.  But 
if  you  are,  is  it  not  delicious  ?  Among  the  hills  all 
kinds  of  weather  are  most  blessed l.  But  in  a  low- 
lying  place  like  Oxford  give  me  summer,  with  all 
its  glorious  richness  in  sights  and  sounds  and 
soft  perfumes.  The  balmy  gust  from  one  bean -field 
is  really  almost  enough  to  console  me  for  the  absence 
of  those  blue  hills  I  love  so  much,  and  sometimes 
dream  of:  besides,  you  can  always  make  hills  out 
of  the  clouds,  and  to  the  latter  phenomena  we  are 
most  liberally  treated  in  England. 

But  here  I  am  rambling  (I  was  going  to  say,  like 
a  goose,  but  I  will  say,  like  a  strayed  donkey,  grazing 
on  moors,  plucking  at  thistles,  and  hee-hawing  at 
everything),  while  I  have  twice  as  good  news  still 
in  store.  It  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  that  Will 

1  Pictures  in  the  margin  :  '  Landing  at  Douglas ;'  '  Mr.  Brown  and 
his  Spying-glass ; '  '  Cumnor  Church,  Berkshire.' 


64  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1854 

has  turned  up  again  from  Calcutta.     Shall  you  see 
him  ? 

Have  you  heard  from  the  I.  of  Man  lately?  I 
have  not  for  three  weeks  !  This  is  horrible !  Really, 
if  they  are  so  negligent,  I  must  cut  them,  I  decidedly 
must. 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

ORIEL  COLLEGE,  OXFORD  (?\ 

February  4,   1854. 

If  in  the  midst  of  literary  and  political  excitement, 
in  the  midst  of  scenes  not  directly  associated  with  our 
dear  lost  one,  I  still  am  often  bowed  to  the  earth  with 
the  burden  of  so  great  a  sorrow 1,  how  must  it  be  with 
you,  immediately  surrounded  as  you  are  by  a  thousand 
objects  connected  (how  dearly,  yet  how  agonizingly) 
with  her  memory,  and  unrelieved  by  any  excitement 
sufficiently  unassociated  with  her  to  lead  your  mind 
in  another  direction  ?  My  dearest  mother,  mine 
indeed  is  the  fitful  sorrow  that  comes  and  goes  like 
shadows  on  the  cornfields  that  still  look  forward 
to  the  harvest ;  yours  is  the  drear  monotony  of 
anguish,  a  leaden  autumn  sky,  when  the  harvest  is 
over. 

You  turn  your  gaze  ever  backward,  backward ; 
while  the  rude  demands  of  actual  life  compel  you  to 
look  (but  with  how  diminished  an  interest)  forward ; 
I  look  backward  too,  but  when  the  tears  come  the 
young  heart  rises  in  its  happy  elasticity,  and  the 
future  beckons  it  to  bliss — bliss,  bliss!  Ah,  how 
uncertain !  God  grant  me  a  humble  share  of  happi- 
ness, and  I  am  content. 

1  The  death  of  his  sister  Dora. 


i854]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  65 

I  hold  that  the  half  of  sorrow  is  unknown  till  we 
have  passed  the  meridian  of  life,  and  there  is  no 
future  to  balance  the  past.  But  there  is  one  con- 
sideration which  equalizes  us  again,  and  that  is  the 
future  beyond  all.  There  you  have  a  happiness 
beyond  expression :  and  there,  and  there  only,  I 
know  full  well,  can  I  look  for  true  and  lasting 
happiness.  In  this  respect,  young  and  old,  we  are 
all  one,  all  alike.  My  earthly  prospects,  my  earthly 
hopes,  may  be  all  before  me  yet ;  yours  may  be  all 
buried  in  the  grave  of  the  past :  but  a  few  years,  and 
my  hopes,  my  loves,  will  be  where  yours  are,  and  we 
shall  both  be  (God  grant  the  prayer)  happy  in  the 
happy,  happy  future,  the  kingdom,  the  mansion,  the 
bosom  of  our  Father.  .  .  . 


To  HIS  MOTHER. 

CHRIST  CHURCH, 

April  16,   1854. 

The  examination  is  to  commence  to-morrow.  Well, 
I  shall  do  my  best ;  and  should  the  result  prove  (as 
in  all  probability  it  will)  unfavourable,  I  shall  not  be 
much  put  out  of  the  way ;  for  the  distinction  (which 
is  very  great)  and  a  year  or  two  of  the  emoluments 
(which  are  considerable)  is  ah1  I  look  to ;  and  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  strike  out  into 
the  world  boldly,  at  once,  without  this  interval  of 
College  preferment. 

I  am  quite  surprised  to  hear  of  your  so  speedy 
removal  to  Douglas.  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that  the 
expense  has  been  so  great ;  but  I  think  you  need  not 

I  E 


66  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1854 

put  yourself  much  out  of  the  way  about  that.  By  all 
means  make  yourself  easy  on  that  score :  spend  what 
requires  to  be  spent,  and  doubt  not.  Before  this 
time  next  year,  and  I  hope  before  Christmas  bills 
come  in,  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  relieve  you  finally 
from  all  anxiety  about  money.  Certainly  the  highest 
value  that  I  set  upon  money,  and  the  first  aim  that 
I  propose  to  myself  in  making  any,  is  that  I  may 
place  it  at  your  service. 

This  is  Easter  Sunday,  and  the  writing  of  Latin 
letters,  &c.,  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  write  last 
night.  I  cannot  consent  to  deny  myself  the  pleasure 
of  going  to  church  this  morning,  and  therefore  I  must 
conclude. 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

45  ST.  ALDATE'S, 

April  23,  1854. 

I  am  delighted  to  announce  the  fact  of  my  success 
at  Oriel.  On  Friday,  I  was  elected  Fellow  along 
with  a  man  of  the  name  of  Pearson 1.  There  were  two 
vacancies  and  eleven  competitors :  the  examination 
lasted  four  days.  The  glory  of  the  thing  is  that  to 
gain  a  Fellowship  at  Oriel  is  considered  the  summit 
of  an  Oxford  man's  ambition.  The  Fellows  of  Oriel 
are  the  picked  men  of  the  University ;  and  this  year 
there  happened  to  be  an  unusually  large  number  of 
very  distinguished  men  in.  This  is  none  of  your 
empty  honours.  It  gives  me  an  income  of  about 
£300  per  ann.,  as  long  as  I  choose  to  reside  at 
Oxford,  and  about  £220  in  cash  if  I  reside  elsewhere. 
In  addition  to  this  it  puts  me  in  a  highly  command- 

1  C.  H.  Pearson,  the  historian  and  Australian  statesman. 


,854]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  67 

ing  position  for  pupils,  so  that  on  the  whole  I  have 
every  reason  to  expect  that  (except  perhaps  the  first 
year)  I  shall  make  between  £500  and  £600  altogether 
per  ann.  So  you  see,  my  dear  mother,  that  your 
prayers  have  not  been  unanswered,  and  that  God 
will  bless  the  generation  of  those  who  humbly  strive 
to  serve  Him.  You  are  now  (it  is  unnecessary  to 
say),  if  my  life  is  spared,  put  out  of  the  reach  of  all 
want,  and,  I  hope,  henceforth  need  never  again  give 
yourself  a  single  anxious  thought  or  care  about 
money  matters.  And  what  a  comfort  this  is,  I'm 
sure  I  know  from  my  own  experience.  I  have  now 
gained  the  very  summit  of  my  hopes  at  Oxford  ;  and 
hope  that  I  may  be  able  to  make  good  use  of  my 
position  with  a  view  to  my  future  life.  But  my  first 
thought  was  and  is  of  you,  and  the  pride  which 
(though  I  say  it)  you  may  reasonably  take  in  my 
success.  ...  I  hope  you  will  accept  the  Oriel  Fellow- 
ship as  a  proof  that  your  son  has  not  as  yet  lived 
quite  in  vain. 

Best  love  to  the  girls.  I  hope  they  like  Douglas. 
...  I  have  not  omitted  to  remark  that  the  election 
took  place  on  April  21,  the  anniversary  of  your  birth 
and  marriage. 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

ORIEL  COLLEGE, 

November  5,  1854. 

Your  account  of  poor  little  H.  quite  confirms  the 

impression  which  I  had  of  his  state  when  I  last  saw 

him.      I    had   no  doubt    that   there  was   something 

serious  the  matter  with  the  poor  little  fellow.     For  my 

E  a 


68  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWX 

own  part,  I  have  such  confidence  in  these  impressions 
that  I  do  not  feel  any  hope  of  his  recovery.  There 
is  a  certain  look  about  the  eye,  a  strange  dreamy, 
unearthly  look,  a  kind  of  stereotyped  interrogation, 
a  wonder  and  an  awe  which  to  me  are  infallible 
signs  of  the  approach  of  Death,  It  was  so  with  poor 

:  and  I  could  not  help  feeling  just  the  same  almost 

as  I  did  when  I  first  came  home  from  C.-town  this 
time  eight  years  ago,  and  found  that  all  familiarity 
of  intercourse  was  over  between  us,  and  felt  that  he 
was  consecrated  to  higher  destinies,  and  that  there 
was  a  visible  mark  of  separation  in  that  fixed  and 
strong  look  :  something  that  bid  me  stand  back,  and 
look  with  reverence  upon  the  change.  I  know  it 
well,  I  should  recognize  that  feeling  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. And  you  can't  conceive  how  it  pained 
me  the  other  day  to  find  that  I  was  compelled  as  it 
were,  whether  I  willed  it  or  not,  to  recognize  this 
awful  mystery. 

The  poor  dear  little  fellow  looked  so  weary,  and 
yet  so  uncomplaining,  except  so  far  as  there  was 
that  same  mute  interrogation  in  his  eye  as  though 
he  wanted  to  ask  us  all  something,  God  only  knows 
what,  poor  darling!  To  all  my  caresses  he  returned 
nothing  but  the  same  look  of  speechless  questioning ; 
and  it  went  to  my  heart  like  a  dagger. 

The  poor  little  fellow  looked  so  good  too :  really 
there  was  a  kind  of  dignity  and  calmness  in  his 
every  motion  (never  free  though  from  that  awe- 
struck reverence),  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  a 
kind  of  half-born  consciousness  of  what  was  coming 
upon  him.  I  thought  it  better  not  to  distress  the 


i86»]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  69 

family  just  then  by  any  ill-timed  surmises :  but  I  have 
seldom  in  my  life  felt  a  keener  pang;  and  you  will 
scarcely  believe  me  that  even  now  as  I  write  the 
tears  blind  my  eyes.  Poor  little  darling  child!  he 
has  opened  an  old  fountain ;  I  scarcely  thought  it 
could  have  flowed  for  him:  but  these  little  tilings 
unconsciously,  and  by  insensible  degrees,  twine  them- 
selves around  our  hearts;  and  I  had  no  idea  till 
now  that  this  little  boy  was  so  dear  to  me  as  he  is. 
I  can  scarcely  bear  to  think  of  him  now  that  he  has 
'put  down  his  little  head,'  as  H.  describes  it.  But 
the  subject  is  inexpressibly  painful  to  me;  I  must 
leave  it l. 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

PARLIAMENT  STREET,  RAMSEY,  ISLE  or  MAM, 
June  ao,  i86a. 

You  can  hardly  believe  how  absolutely  barren 
and  desolate  the  island  appears  to  me  coming  from 
Gloucestershire.  The  farming  looks  just  like  a  mere 
slight  scratching  on  the  surface,  and  as  for  the  trees 
and  hedges  they  look  Like  unfledged  starveling  birds. 
I  confess  I  never  felt  before  the  immense  difference 
between  our  bare  little  island  and  the  rich  luxuriance 
of  English  vegetation,  at  least  West  of  England  vege- 
tation. .  .  .  K.  told  me  such  a  capital  story  of . 

Preaching  upon  the  text, '  Demas  hath  forsaken  me,' 

1  With  the  exception  of  the  three  letters  that  follow  there  is  a  gap 
of  nearly  twent}7  years,  •which  the  relatives  and  friends  known  to  me 
have  been  unable  to  fill  up.  [Brown  once  said  to  a  friend — '  For 
many  years — I  don't  know  how  many — I  gave  myself  up  to  domestic 
life  and  read  and  wrote  practically  nothing.'] 


70  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1862 

and  trying  to  extemporize,  he  apostrophized  an 
imaginary  Demas,  and  exclaimed,  '  Aw !  Demas  man  ! 
Demas  man  !  what  did  ye  do  yandhar  for  ? '  .  .  . 
A.  has  borne  all  her  fatigues  well,  and  Baby  famously. 
.  .  .  She  is  beginning  to  enjoy  herself.  The  sea  is 
to  her,  and  indeed  to  me,  a  source  of  endless  delight. 

To  HIS  MOTHER. 

(GLOUCESTER  ?) 

September  21,  1862. 

The  Festival  was  a  great  treat.  We  enjoyed  the 
Oratorio  very  much ;  we  had  excellent  places,  and 
could  both  see  and  hear  to  advantage.  It  was  my 
favourite,  the  Elijah.  .  .  .  When  H.  and  A.  were  in 
London,  we  had  a  geological  excursion  in  the  Dean 
Forest.  The  day  was  glorious :  we  got  some  speci- 
mens, and  partially  disinterred  a  very  extraordinary 
skull,  the  teeth  of  which  has  taken  to  Cam- 
bridge. .  .  .  Then  we  rambled  out  of  the  forest  on 
to  a  common  high  up  in  the  hills,  where  I  had  the 
inexpressible  delight  of  lying  down  on  a  bed  of 
heather  in  full  bloom  (!!!!),  with  harebells  and  even 
gorse  close  by.  This  was  the  crowning  triumph. 

was  '  visibly  affected,'  as  I  told  him  ;  for  he  loves 

the  I.  of  Man  and  the  nature  of  its  scenery.  I  only 
wish  I  had  gone  there  earlier  in  the  day,  and  by 
myself!  What  a  treat  it  would  have  been,  what 
inward  communing,  what  memories,  what  dead  hopes 
and  fears,  leaves  that  have  faded  from  my  tree  of 
life ! !  And  over  all  was  the  bright  sky,  blue  as  the 
harebell  itself,  and  bluer;  and,  as  it  always  is,  cir- 
cumscribing all  our  littleness  of  life,  larger  and  better 


1862]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  71 

than  it.  Moreover  I  ate  some  blackberries :  but  they 
were  poor  and  flavourless  compared  with  the  Manx 
ones. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  to-day  we  have  had 
a  mulberry  pudding  off  our  own  tree.  We  thought 
to  compare  it  with  a  blackberry  one  ;  but  wae's  me  ! 
what  a  difference !  We  all  agreed  that  it  was  im- 
mensely inferior  to  our  old  friend.  .  .  .  Baby  is 
becoming  a  songstress ;  perhaps  the  Festival  has  shed 
some  occult  influence  upon  her.  .  .  .  Your  descrip- 
tion of  the  view  from  Douglas  Head  makes  my  mouth 
water.  Glorious,  indeed,  it  must  be  now.  Love 
to  M. 

To  THE  REV.  E.  W.  KISSACK. 

(GLOUCESTER  ?) 

September  24,  1862. 
Forget  and  forgive 
As  long  as  you  live. 

The  discrepancy  between  the  dates  of  our  respective 
letters  is  something  frightful.  I  can  only  trust,  &c.,  &c. 

I  fear  I  cannot  subscribe  to  your  organ.  And  I  will 
candidly  tell  you  the  reason.  Your  list  of  subscribers 
is  really  not  the  thing.  Let  the  parish  come  out  first 
as  it  ought  to  do,  and  then  outsiders  may  be  called 
on.  But  I  think,  from  what  I  can  see,  that  interesting 
crisis  has  not  yet  come.  And  now  you  will  probably 
say  I  am  a  hypocrite  of  the  most  crocodilian  stamp  if 
I  wish  you  every  success  in  the  undertaking.  But 
remember  I  am  ready  to  undergo  any  moderate 
amount  of  phlebotomy,  provided  that  I  can  first  see 
such  an  effort  on  the  part  of  the  parishioners  as  would 
indicate  an  effectual  demand. 


72  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1873 

Is  the  Archdeacon  at  home  ?  If  so,  will  you  present 
to  him  my  kind  remembrances.  A  young  lady  in 
Ramsey  has  just  sent  me  his  carte  de  visite.  I  fancy  it 
is  by  Myers :  it  is  very  fair,  and  represents  the  arch- 
deacon just  as  he  must  have  looked  after  running 
across  from  the  Mitre,  whip  in  hand. 


To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

4  ST.  JOHN'S  TERRACE,  KESWICK, 

September  16,   1873. 

I  went  to  Scotland  but  not  to  Shetland.  At  St. 
Andrews  I  found  the  people  had  given  P.  such  a 
dismal  picture  of  what  was  likely  to  be  in  store  for 
us  in  the  Shetlands  that  he  had  lost  all  heart  about  it. 
A  long  course  of  St.  Andrews'  golf  seemed  to  have 
made  his  enterprise  droop  rather. 

However,  we  determined  to  go  to  the  Highlands 
for  a  week  or  ten  days. 

What  we  wanted  to  do  was  to  make  for  Aviemore 
Station  on  the  Highland  Railway  (Strathspey) ;  this 
is  visible  in  some  sort  from  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
say  twelve  or  fifteen  miles  off ;  but,  of  course,  not  to 
us.  We  made  a  dive  down  a  steep  slope.  We  got 
into  a  perfect  pit  of  a  corrie,  a  concentration  of 
corries.  But  we  had  hit  it  very  fairly.  We  were 
between  Ben  MacDhui  and  Cairn  Toul :  a  little 
below  the  Wells  of  Dee.  The  deuce  of  this  Cairn- 
gorm range  is  that  the  mountains  are  separated  from 
one  another  by  such  infernal  abysses.  I  had  no  idea 
of  this.  If  you  look  at  a  map  you  would  fancy  it 
would  be  an  easy  matter  passing  from  one  to  another : 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  73 

but  each  of  these  transitions  is  a  veritable  descensus 
ad  infer os,  and  the  resurrectio,  oh,  the  weary  resur- 
rectio  /  Just  about  the  Wells  of  Dee  (sources  of  that 
jolly  river)  is  the  pass,  or  at  least  the  watershed 
between  the  Dee  and  the  Spey  valleys.  It  is  the 
roughest  pass  I  was  ever  in  ;  the  walking,  or  rather 
hopping,  skipping,  and  jumping,  utterly  ruinous  to 
one's  temper.  The  rain  came  down — well,  you  know 
how — and  the  track  was  simply  no  track  at  all. 
I  don't  know  by  what  combination  of  blundering,  and 
conjecture,  and  divination,  and  audacity,  we  hit  it. 
As  far  as  it  existed  at  all,  it  was  a  thin  line  of  plashy, 
pasty  peat,  through  heather,  cranberry,  bilberry, 
beastliness.  In  fact,  it  did  not  exist. 

However,  we  came  at  last  to  a  forest  road.  Here 
the  country  was  delicious — Rothiemurchus  heather 
such  as  it  would  seem  impudent  to  picture  to  oneself, 
except  in  dreams  ;  rainbows,  and  fragments  of  rain- 
bows— here,  there,  and  everywhere.  Sometimes  just 
one  ruby  bit  making  the  heather  burn  into  an  in- 
tensity as  of  pain  ;  then  the  whole  big  arch  spanning 
the  valley.  Very  good :  but  here  we  had  to  ford 
a  river,  the  Morlich.  So  behold  these  two  venerable 
presbyters,  with  their  trousers  tucked  up  high  on 
their  poor  pale  thighs,  stumbling  over  the  stones  of 
Morlich,  with  knapsack  on  back,  and  a  rueful  air  of 
parodying  our  stalwart-legged  breechless  brethren. 
Here  at  last,  yes  here,  in  this  all  but  indecent  state,  we 
encountered  two  natives — an  old  man  and  a  young 
woman.  Charming  Highlanders!  How  good  they 
are  !  How  truly  polite !  Not  a  smile  ;  or,  if  so,  so 
kindly,  so  sweetly  tempered  with  gracious  considera- 


74  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1874 

tion  for  the  forlorn  and,  I  should  say,  apparently 
idiotic  pair  who  stood  before  them. 

The  girl  spoke  English,  and  acted  as  interpreter 
for  us  with  her  Gaelic- speaking  father.  I  spread 
myself  all  out  to  look  manly  and  brawny — it  was  as 
a  glazier  spreadeth  the  putty  with  his  knife— as  the 
thrifty  matron  spreadeth  the  sparse  butter  with  her 
thumb  on  the  bannock  of  expectant  infancy. 

At  last  I  felt  it  would  not  do.  I  collapsed,  drooped, 
looked  feebly  poetical,  and  asked  old  Donald  to  accept 
of  a  little  well-meant  tobacco.  On  the  whole  this  last 
act  had  some  little  flavour  of  manliness  in  it,  and 
I  felt  encouraged ;  as  we  moved  on,  I  almost  strode. 
We  came  on  the  Spey  at  the  Boat-house,  as  it  is  called ; 
nor  is  it  a  public-house ;  that  is,  it  has  no  licence. 
But  a  girl  of  some  twenty-three  years  keeps  it,  and 
gives  you  tea.  She  lives  alone !  bless  her !  and 
cursed  eternally  be  he  that  would  make  it  unsafe  for 
her  thus  to  live !  What  a  tea  she  gave  us !  and  what 
comfort  and  quiet  and  gentleness  and  peace  altogether ! 
But  this  will  never  do !  I  must  leave  off  this  maunder- 
ing. You  may  suppose  us  therefore  to  be  still  at  the 
Boat-house.  As  God  liveth,  and  as  thy  soul  liveth, 
I  wish  we  were  for  ever  and  ever. 

My  kind  love  to  Mamma  and  John. 

To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

CLIFTON, 

October  18,  1874. 

Our  three  weeks  in  Switzerland  were  consummate. 
No  rain,  no  wind,  a  perpetual  bath  of  sunshine,  hot  of 


i874]         LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  75 

course,  but  at  those  heights  deliciously  bracing  and 
stimulating ;  sunshine  that  got  into  your  brain  and 
heart,  and  set  you  all  aglow  with  a  sweet  radiant  fire 
I  never  thought  possible  for  my  old  jaded  apparatus 
physicus.  We  went  by  Paris  to  Neufchatel ;  thence 
to  Berne,  Thun,  Interlaken,  Lauterbrunnen,  Miirren. 
Here  we  stayed  a  week.  It  was  the  best  part  of  our 
holiday ;  a  week  never,  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Murren  faces  the  Jungfrau.  This  glorious  creature 
is  your  one  object  of  interest  from  morning  to  night. 
It  seems  so  near  that  you  could  fancy  a  stone  might 
be  thrown  across  to  it.  Between  you  and  it  is  a  broad 
valley :  but  so  deep,  and  with  sides  so  precipitous, 
that  it  is  entirely  out  of  sight.  So  the  Jungfrau  vis-a- 
m's-es  you  frankly  through  the  bright  sweet  inter- 
vening air.  And  then  she  has  such  moods ;  such 
unutterable  smiles,  such  inscrutable  sulks,  such  growls 
of  rage  suppressed,  such  thunder  of  avalanches,  such 
crowns  of  stars.  One  evening  our  sunset  was  the 
real  rose-pink  you  have  heard  of  so  much.  It  fades, 
you  know,  into  a  deathlike  chalk-white.  That  is  the 
most  awful  thing.  A  sort  of  spasm  seems  to  come 
over  her  face,  and  in  an  instant  she  is  a  corpse,  rigid, 
and  oh  so  cold !  Well,  so  she  died,  and  you  felt  as 
if  a  great  soul  had  ebbed  away  into  the  Heaven  of 
Heavens :  and  thankful,  but  very  sad,  I  went  up  to  my 
room.  I  was  reading  by  candle-light,  for  it  gets  dark 
immediately  after  sunset,  when  A.  shrieked  to  me  to 
come  to  the  window.  What  a  Resurrection — so  gentle, 
so  tender — like  that  sonnet  of  Milton's  about  his  dead 
wife  returning  in  vision  !  The  moon  had  risen ;  and 
there  was  the  Jungfrau— oh  chaste,  oh  blessed  saint 


76  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1874 

in  glory  everlasting !  Then  all  the  elemental  spirits 
that  haunt  crevasses,  and  hover  around  peaks,  all  the 
patient  powers  that  bear  up  the  rock  buttresses,  and 
labour  to  sustain  great  slopes,  all  streams,  and  drifts, 
and  flowers,  and  vapours,  made  a  symphony,  a  time 
most  solemn  and  rapturous.  It  was  there,  unheard 
perhaps,  unheard,  I  will  not  deny  it ;  but  there,  never- 
theless. A  young  Swiss  felt  it,  and  with  exquisite 
delicacy  feeling  his  way,  as  it  were,  to  some  expres- 
sion, however  inadequate,  he  played  a  sonata  of 
Schumann,  and  one  or  two  of  the  songs,  such  as  the 
Fruhlingsnacht.  Forgive  my  rhapsody:  but,  you 
know,  you  don't  get  those  things  twice.  And  let 
me  say  just  one  word  of  what  followed.  The  abyss 
below  was  a  pot  of  boiling  blackness,  and  on  to  this, 
and  down  into  this,  and  all  over  this,  the  moonlight 
fell  as  meal  falls  on  to  porridge  from  nimbly  sifting 
fingers.  Moon-meal !  that  was  it. 

I  climbed  the  Schilthorn  one  day  before  breakfast ; 
it  is  about  10,000  feet ;  but,  as  a  rule,  I  didn't  like  to 
leave  A.  alone ;  so  that  my  climbing  was  of  the  most 
limited,  and  I  scarcely  got  on  to  ice  at  all.  At 
Miirren,  perhaps  more  than  anywhere  else,  we  had 
the  most  astounding  richness  of  pasture.  But  Switzer- 
land, generally,  is  in  this  respect  unique.  So  lush  is 
the  vegetation  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  up 
into  bare  savagery  of  desolation. 

The  sweet  bright  Flora  baffles  you ;  she  springs  like 
a  bacchante  from  height  to  height.  You  can't  get 
above  her.  I  don't  mean  fat,  fulsome  richness;  but 
the  pastures  are  so  velvety,  so  parsemed  with  all 
imaginable  colours.  The  grass  seems  to  be  all  flowers, 


i874]         LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  77 

and  the  flowers  to  be  all  grass :  the  closest-grained 
math  I  ever  beheld ;  and  through  it  everywhere,  led 
by  careful  hands,  go  singing,  hissing  rather,  like 
sharp  silver  scythes,  the  little  blessed  streams.  I  was 
not  prepared  for  this. 

We  got  to  Chamounix  and  went  up  the  Flegere,  and 
A.  was  like  a  roe  upon  the  mountains ;  and  every  care 
and  every  strain  of  anxiety  and  bother  was  wiped  from 
off  our  souls,  and  we  were  both,  as  we  once  were,  young 
and  full  of  hope  and  love.  Age  and  the  love  shall  remain, 
God  wot,  but  the  other  things — all  right !  all  right ! 
No  language  can  give  you  any  idea  how  all  this 
enjoyment  acted  on  A. ;  and  over  and  over  I  thought, 
and  every  day  I  still  think,  what  a  bain  de  vie  this 
would  be  for  you.  It  did  far  more  for  her  than  for 
me.  In  Clifton  she  gets  more  depressed,  compressed, 
suppressed,  than  I  do ;  but  in  Switzerland  the  very 
geist  of  the  hills  got  into  her,  and  expanded  her 
heart,  and  every  vital  power,  till  she  veritably  bloomed ; 
and  she  was  so  happy. 

From  Geneva  we  made  a  pretty  straight  course 
home.  We  stayed  a  night  at  Dijon,  and  another 
night  in  Paris ;  the  next  we  slept  at  Charing  Cross : 
and  the  next  at  Pensarn.  So  fades  from  my  view, 
but  not  from  my  heart,  the  richest  page  on  which  my 
poor  halting  life  must  be  written.  .  .  . 

...  I  hope  Mamma  is  able  to  enjoy  some  happiness 
still.  Will  this  letter  amuse  her,  do  you  think  ?  .  .  . 
I  do  so  long  to  cheer  and  comfort  her :  but  I  am  sadly 
awkward  about  it.  Give  her  my  very  best  love ;  and 
tell  her,  how  every  highest  thought  with  which  God 
is  pleased  to  bless  me  seems  to  come  from  Him  to  me 


78  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1875 

through  her.  Not  in  vain  am  I  her  son ;  I  feel  sure 
of  that.  And,  believe  me,  this  is  no  conceit :  one  can't 
help  feeling  what  one  feels :  and  if  I  do  feel  a  strict 
and  native  companionship  with  the  mountains  of  either 
world,  I  will  not  deny  it,  and  I  will  claim  it  as  inherited 
from  her.  * 

Kind  love  to  J.,  the  good  and  ever  blessed. 

To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

LIBRARY  READING  ROOM,  CLIFTON  COLLEGE, 
December  25,  1875. 

The  blessings  of  this  fair  Christmas-tide  be  on  you 
and  your  *  gude  man  ' !  It  is  a  most  lovely  morning. 
I  am  sitting  in  the  College  Library,  in  a  deep  oriel. 
The  Close,  Chapel,  &c.,  are  bathed  in  the  sweetest 
sunshine,  it  is  quite  tepid,  and  the  air  is  so  still.  Only 
indeed  some  blackbirds  in  the  gardens  are  '  shoutin',' 
and  no  wonder — the  '  craythurs.'  This  silence  and 
solitude  are  to  me  absolute  food,  especially  after  all 
the  row  and  worry  at  the  end  of  Term. 

The  Headmasters  held  their  Conference  here  imme- 
diately after  our  Breaking- up.  And  now  the  last 
rumble  of  their  chariot-wheels  has  died  away,  East- 
ward, and  there  is  not  a  soul  about,  and  the  sunshine 
is  not  embarrassed  by  having  to  make  shadows  for 
any  strange  bodies,  and  all  is  clear,  luminous,  delicious, 
universal  intelligence.  It  floats  and  buoys  me  up  all 
round.  '  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,'  or  rather 
a  four-post  bedstead  of  gentlest  solace.  And  surely 
this  sweet  blue  air  is  the  very  life  of  the  intellect. 
All  storms,  and  individuals,  and  rapprochements,  and 


i876]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  79 

relations,  and  permutations,  and  combinations  seem  to 
me  now  brutal  and  destructive,  wasteful  and  deadly. 
That  a  blackbird  should  pipe  may  well  be  borne,  and 
I  swear  to  you  (imagine  some  ethereal  bird-of- paradise 
oath!)  that  there  is  nothing  else.  The  sky  is  hung 
over  this  place  by  a  most  delicate  diamond  boss  at  the 
zenith,  and  believe  me !  it  all  swims  in  silent  blue 
music.  (I  saw  a  sheep  then,  but  never  mind !)  Where 
are  the  men  and  women  ?  Well,  now  look  here,  you'll 
not  mention  it  again.  They're  all  in  church.  See 
how  good  God  is!  See  how  he  has  placed  these 
leitourgic  traps  in  which  people,  especially  disagree- 
able people,  get  caught — and  lo!  the  universe  for 
me ! ! !  me — me.  .  .  . 

Bless  you  all  everywhere  that  love  me.  It  is 
1 1 .45  a.m.  A  rook  has  just  flown  past.  As  he  did 
so,  he  cawed.  From  his  black  wings  dripped  the 
almost  clinging  blue. 


To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON  COLLEGE, 

March  26,  1876. 

I  think  there  is  every  likelihood  that  I  shall  look 
you  up.  But  if  not,  why  can't  you  come  to  us 
(Windermere)  ?  Yes — have  a  walk  with  me  up  Fair- 
field.  Ha !  have  I  found  you  ? 

'The  Doctor'  is  still  in  the  long-clothes  of  MS., 
and  most  likely  will  never  be  short-coated.  It  is 
enough :  he  has  been  born :  the  gossips  have  come 
and  looked  at  him,  and  said— What  a  remarkable 
child!  how  like  his  father!  What  more  would  you 


8o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1877 

have  ?  A  joke  /  .  .  .  Bless  that  baby  of  yours.  You 
ought  to  play  the  piano  for  him,  too.  I  had  so 
severely  arranged  all  my  spring-  affinities,  sympathies, 
symphonies,  or  whatever  they  are,  that  this  weather 
has  completely  knocked  me  to  pieces ;  not  in  body, 
however,  which  is  sufficient,  and  plods  on  steadily. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

LYNTON  COTTAGE,  LYNTOH, 
April  16,  1877- 

It  is  so  cold.  Can  it  possibly  be  like  this  with  you  ? 
We  have  one  colour :  it  is  grey,  the  grey  of  an  old 
man's  beard,  stubbly  and  unwashen. 

But  there  is  roaring  of  winds  and  streams. 

Last  night  I  had  a  ramble  which  it  would  be  hard 
to  describe.  I  went  round  and  round  something; 
probably  myself.  One  point  there  was  upon  the 
circumference — a  spark — a  ship  working  her  way 
up  channel  against  wind  and  tide.  The  ship  was 
invisible  in  the  gloom,  but  the  light — what  intense 
yearning !  and  what  pluck  and  energy  too ! 

It  was  like  a  red  diamond,  if  there  be  such  a  thing, 
boring  into  blackness.  I  could  almost  hear  the  rip-rip 
of  the  severing  sheets  of  darkness ;  or  perhaps,  rather, 
a  delicate  hum  of  the  gritty  grating  stuff  through 
which  she  had  to  pass. 

But  no,  I  return  to  the  first  idea.  The  borer,  the 
red  diamond  piercing  the  black  marble.  Ah  well — 
what  matter ! 

Write  to  me,  and  tell  me  about  Rubinstein.  Now 
do!  do! 


i878]         LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  81 

I  enclose  some  verses,  which  are  silly  enough ;  but 
I  couldn't  help  writing  them. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

January  6,   1878. 

Politics  move  me  not.  There  is  nothing  archi- 
tectonic in  this  science,  from  my  point  of  view. 
I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  a  passage  in  Sismondi 
I  happened  to  be  reading  just  when  your  letter 
arrived.  '  Man  is  the  product  of  laws  and  institutions,' 
and  so  forth.  What  absolute  rot!  The  political 
function  does  not  require  genius,  or  any  brilliancy 
even ;  nay,  it  is  better  to  have  it  entirely  dissociated 
from  all  such  lure.  Derby  and  Carnarvon  would 
steer  us  through  this  strait  infinitely  better  if  that 
old  virtuoso  were  not  upon  the  bridge— blow 
him !  We  only  want  a  certain  material  fence  drawn 
round  the  garden  of  our  life.  We  can't  waste  any- 
thing very  precious  or  beautiful  upon  such  a  vallum. 
Pitch  honest  stakes,  and  let  stout  ditchers  delve.  The 
genius  is  wanted  for  other  purposes. 

To  Miss  CANNAN. 

CLIFTON, 

May  16,  1878. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  great  treat.  The  Auto- 
biography is  quite  incomparable.  What  a  bright  old 
desperado !  she  holds  her  atheistic  bayonet  to  your 
throat  with  such  cheerful  energy.  The  style  is  most 
refreshing.  .  .  . 


82  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1878 

I  confess  I  am  very  curious  to  see  Mrs.  Chapman's 
book.  This  stout-hearted  woman  (Martineau)  lay 
down  with  a  sort  of  grim  satisfaction,  to  die,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-one ;  and  didn't  she  live  quite  twenty  years 
afterwards  ?  I  will  hazard  the  observation  that  her 
longevity  may  have  been  favoured  by  her  supreme 
self-complacency. 

Also,  is  she  not  a  little  cool  (coarse  ?  vulgar  ?)  in 
the  way  she  talks  about  '  Old  Wordsworth '  ?  Mind, 
I  can  stand  her  contempt  for  parsons,  and  all  that — 
it  doesn't  ruffle  my  feathers  in  the  least.  But  I  do 
feel  that  with  Wordsworth  we  are  upon  sacred  ground. 
I  am  all  the  more  bothered  because  Miss  Martineau 
was  not  a  Philistine  by  any  means,  and  she  makes 
every  now  and  then  extraordinary  good  hits  as  to 
what  constitutes  true  poetry. 


To  Miss  CANNAN. 

CLIFTON  COLLEGE, 

July  14,   1878. 

Thank  you  for  the  Manse  Garden.  I  am  going 
right  through  it ;  though  he  keeps  me  a  long  time 
waiting  at  the  holly  hedge.  It  is  very  pleasant 
reading.  I  think  I  almost  prefer  the  glimpses  he 
gives  us  of  possible  tatterdemalionism  and  easy-going 
out-of-elbowness  in  a  Scotch  Manse.  I  fancy  I  can 
see  those  dry  dust-heaps  where  the  hens  wash  them- 
selves in  a  kind  of  earth-born  snuff. 

We  had  much  ado  to  get  anything  out  of  our 
garden.  It  was  a  regular  fight  against  unfavourable 


,878]         LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  83 

circumstances,  very  heart-breaking  at  the  time,  I 
believe ;  but  amusing-  enough  to  look  back  upon.  .  .  . 
You  will,  I  dare  say,  let  me  tarry  a  little  longer 
in  the  precincts  of  the  Manse.  I  have  not  yet  seen 
inside  of  the  holly. 


To  J.  E.  PEARSON. 

PENSARN, 

September  16,  1878. 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter.  With  such  letters 
the  mill-stream  of  our  lives  should  be  studded  as 
with  water-  lilies. 

It  is  not  a  letter  in  truth  so  much  as  a  sonnet.  Also 
it  is  ('  for  example  ')  a  little  overture — most  refresh- 
ing— and  just  what  people  ought  to  make  haste  to 
write  to  each  other. 

I  would  not  have  it  transposed  into  the  key  of 
verse.  But  it  makes  me  ponder.  Do  you  write 
verse  ?  I  have,  somewhere  far  back  in  my  suspec- 
torium  (if  there  be  such  an  organ  or  receptacle), 
an  idea  that  you  possibly  meant  your  very  sweet 
description  as  a  most  gentle  and  loving  gird  at  my 
mountain  truculence.  I  know,  I  know — indeed  I 
also  long  for  peace  and  '  straight-backed  cows,'  and 
*  swallows  round  the  towers.'  And  whenever  you 
see  these  things  very  clearly  do  write  to  me  at  once. 
Of  such  amours  I  am  a  greedy  but  safe  confidant. 
On  Thursday  we  shall  be  in  Clifton.  I  delight  in 
Wales  more  than  ever.  But  for  England  there  is 
very  much  to  be  said. 

F  2 


84  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1879 


To  J.  E.  PEARSON. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 
September  15,  1879. 

Again  I  receive  your  holiday  pictures,  and  thank 
you  heartily  for  the  pleasant  triptych.  How  shall 
I  make  return  ?  I  have  been  in  Yorkshire — no, 
Durham  ;  my  first  picture  may  be— at  Appleby. 

I  was  with  Atkinson :  we  were  climbing  up  from 
the  town  to  the  station,  when  suddenly  far  above  us,  on 
a  high  bank  against  the  sky-line,  was  P.,  a  solemn 
and  almost  awful  figure  and  face,  not  melancholy,  but 
stern  and  hard,  far  reach  of  eye,  the  pose  of  memories 
and  back-seeking.  His  old  school  lay  beneath  his 
feet,  his  old  church,  his  old  river,  his  old  self. 

My  second  picture  must  be  Caldron  Snout,  in 
Teesdale,  seen  by  us  in  the  late  twilight,  a  joyous 
rush  of  flaming  cream,  sheets  and  volumes  of  that 
fire  you  get  by  rubbing  together  two  pieces  of 
quartz— a  bridge  (wooden,  precarious)  spans  the  fall 
midway.  We  look  up  to  the  comby  crest  where 
it  first  gets  a  notion  of  what  is  before  it ;  under  us  is 
the  straight  arrowy  myriad -lined  thrust  of  the  absolute 
energy,  full  of  hate  and  insane  purpose.  We  climb 
a  bit  of  rock,  and  above  the  fall  we  see  grey  and 
melancholy  preparations,  a  long  dim  claymore  riveted 
into  a  background  of  hills ;  the  hills  black  with 
a  lustrous  blackness  as  of  Hamburg  grapes ;  beyond 
all  a  blue-white  sky,  almost  intolerably  clear. 

The  colours  grey,  blue,  white,  cream,  black.  In 
the  south,  just  resting  on  the  high  level  of  a  moor, 


,879]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  85 

Jupiter ;  in  the  east,  sinister  and  dim,  Saturn  and  Mars. 
All  the  land  very  high,  everything  held  up  as  if  upon 
some  giant's  palm  for  heaven  to  look  upon— a  con- 
sciousness of  being  above  everything.  A  perfect 
solitude,  no  roads,  no  paths,  no  trace  or  sign  of  human 
habitation.  A  half-acknowledged  difficulty  of  ever 
getting  away,  ever  getting  back  to  the  homely  ways  and 
haunts  of  men.  On  one  side  of  me,  P.,  quite  silent 
and  looking  up;  on  the  other,  M.,  pale,  unearthly, 
his  face  seamed  with  deep  lines  of  violet,  looking  into 
mine,  and  asking  me  whether  I  am  satisfied.  His 
childish  glee  when  I  tell  him  I  am,  and  yet  the  un- 
abated hunger  for  sympathy,  and  again  and  again  the 
question,  and  again  and  again  the  answer,  until  at 
last  he  looked  radiant  with  gratitude  and  triumph. 
And  then,  will  you  not  believe  it,  Pearson  ?  the  rush 
into  my  eyes  of  tears  that  I  suppose  I  succeeded  in 
hiding. 

We  saw  High  Force  next  day,  but,  as  M.  had  fore- 
known, with  all  its  greatness,  it  could  not  be  accepted 
by  us  in  lieu  of  Caldron. 

My  third  picture  (ah,  vines!  apricots!  sunny 
parsondom  !  no — not  you/  not  you/  but)  a  thunder- 
storm in  our  mountains  here.  B.  and  I  had  gone 
up  Hindscarth,  and  were  now  on  Dale-head, 
a  good  stony  hill  up  Newland's  way  confronting 
Honister.  It  came  from  Scawfell.  I  saw  it  there 
a  deep  blue,  or  rather  a  gunpowder  black.  With 
two  clips  of  its  broad  wings  it  was  upon  us ;  and  we 
ran — ran  before  it— ran  down  to  get  shelter  among 
the  crags,  for  our  Dale-head  was  as  bare  as  a  billiard 
ball.  We  had  hardly  time  to  dispossess  a  poor  sheep 


86  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i879 

of  its  niche  (it  might  have  stayed,  however,  if  it  had 
so  chosen),  when  it  swept  over  us  in  a  splendid  rush 
of  rain,  hail,  and  lightning-.  It  had  no  time  to  stop 
and  search  for  such  atomies  as  we,  but  with  one 
great  wrench  and  a  mighty  fling  it  rattled  down  into 
Borrowdale  eastward  ;  then  sunshine  and  a  blue  sky 
with  that  blessed  wistful  look  as  who  should  say — 
1  Were  you  frightened  ? '  And  then  a  descent  to  a 
quarry,  where  two  cheerful  men  were  cutting  slates, 
and  were  so  glad  to  see  us.  I  dare  say  you  know  the 
curious  numbness  and  pricking  of  the  fingers  when 
you  are  caught  in  a  real  thunder-cloud,  and  are  all 
but  breathing  electricity.  I  fear  you  will  be  dis- 
appointed with  my  three  pictures ;  but  I  thought 
I  would  try  and  give  you  back  some  portion  of  the 
pleasure  you  have  given  me. 

Let  us  exchange  these  sketches  every  summer,  as 
long  as  we  adhere  to  this  not-after-all-so-much-to- 
be-condemned-and-deprecated  old  scene  of  existence. 


To  MRS.  FLETCHER. 

CUJTON, 

Octobtr  19,   1879. 

Though  personally  unknown  to  you,  I  feel  I  must 
write  to  you  in  your  great  sorrow.  Such  sorrow 
seems  to  cry  from  the  depths  of  its  unutterable  in- 
tensity to  all  hearts  that  have  felt  and  can  feel  what 
sorrow  is.  Such  sorrow  makes  all  true  men  your 
brothers,  and  I  for  one  would  fain  try  and  comfort 
you  a  little. 


1879]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  87 

And  yet  how  hard  it  is  to  say  anything  that  will 
comfort  you  !  I  can  only  stand  by  your  side,  and 
speechlessly  pray  for  you,  and  sympathize  with  you. 
It  is  dark  indeed !  oh  for  light !  for  the  light.  Dear 
friend,  how  I  have  prayed  for  this  in  my  own  case ! 
that  God  would  come  into  my  heart,  and  shed,  if  not 
a  bright  convincing  joy,  at  least  some  soft  sweet 
soothing  twilight  of  His  love  in  which  I  could  rest. 
May  He  give  you  this,  and  make  you  feel  that  all  is 
well !  For  assuredly  all  is  so.  I  knew  your  little  girl : 
I  once  took  a  number  of  young  things  (I  scarcely 
remember  any  of  them  now  but  her)  in  a  boat  in 
Ramsey  Bay.  I  thought  her  very  lovable,  and  in 
every  way  promising  and  delightful.  And  we  chatted 
and  laughed,  as  you  may  well  imagine — bright  sky, 
merry  hearts,  all  hope  and  radiance !  I  don't  think 
I  ever  saw  her  again.  And,  indeed,  this  would  be 
but  a  slight  ground  for  asking  to  be  permitted  to 
associate  myself  to  your  grief,  vividly  as  it  remains 
pictured  on  my  memory.  But  I  knew  your  late 
husband  very  well,  and  we  must  have  many  common 
interests  and  friends.  It  is,  however,  as  one  who  has 
suffered  that  I  venture  to  address  you  now.  This 
seems  to  be  the  strongest  of  all  ties,  or  nearly  so.  My 
heart  bleeds  for  you,  for  are  you  not  my  sister  in 
the  sacred  bonds  of  sorrow  ?  I  pray  God  to  bless 
you.  Some  little  relief  may  come  from  human  com- 
forters ;  but  it  was  He  that  made  our  poor  struggling 
hearts,  and  He  alone  can  strengthen  and  sustain 
them. 


88  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1879 

To  J.  E.  PEARSON. 

CHAPEL, 

December  si,  1879. 

Again  I  see  you,  Pearson,  like  a  bird 

Flushed  from  Devonian  furrows,  where  they  lie 

And  front  the  concaves  of  another  sky, 
And  scent  the  nearer  Spring.     Ah,  say  a  word! 
Say  two,  dear  Pearson !  surely  we  have  heard 

Enough  of  *  moral,  spiritual '  powers, 

'  In  a  society  like  ours  '— 

The  pulpit,  Pearson  !  not  the  pew — 
Assume  the  concionatic  perch : 

Ah,  tell  us  how  they  coo — 

The  pigeons  of  the  Exe, 

What  foam-bird  flecks 
The  channel's  waste,  what  tridents  search, 
Keen-pronged,  the  Daulian  caves, 
And  all  the  bicker  of  the  waves — 
Ah,  tell  us,  do ! 

Do,  Pearson:  nor  not  tell 
How  fares  the  younger  birch — 

Is  Eddard  Harris  well 
As  well  can  be — 
And  of  his  consort  tell  me — how  is  she  ? 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

October  24,  1880. 

If  I  might  see  what  you  have  written,  by  way  of 
memorial,  I  would  be  grateful :  but  I  hardly  know 
whether  I  ought  to  ask  you  this.  You  can  judge; 
and  you  will  judge  according  to  the  law  of  kindness 
and  sympathy.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  shut  out  no 


i88o]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  89 

honest  spirit  that  wants  to  feel  with  us  even  in  our 
deepest  sorrows. 

Concerning  those  loved  ones — whether  any  com- 
munication with  them  now  is  possible,  whether  we 
shall  hereafter  know  them,  or  '  have  anything  to  do 
with  them,'  all  this  is  to  me  the  merest  mist.  I  did 
not  like  to  say  so  before,  for  I  thought  it  would 
distress  you.  But  as  you  almost  ask  me,  I  have  to 
tell  you  now  that  I  know  nothing  about  '  a  dis- 
embodied state ' ;  that  to  me  it  is  altogether  removed 
from  the  sphere  of  practical  considerations.  To  say 
I  recognize  the  wisdom  of  God,  and  His  goodness  in 
all,  is  to  say  what  may  be  said,  but  it  seems  useless  to 
say  it.  I  simply  know  nothing :  I  submit,  I  acquiesce 
even  ;  but  that  is  all.  That  we  cannot  have  pleasure 
without  pain,  for  instance,  is,  in  a  rueful  sort  of  way, 
true  enough  ;  but  is  it  not  an  unhappy  arrangement  ? 
and  is  it  to  go  on  after  death  ?  or  is  that  supreme 
pain  to  be  final  ?  And  if  Heaven,  or  whatever  we 
call  it,  is  to  be  free  from  pain,  why  should  not  earth 
be  so  ?  and  so  on,  and  so  on, ...  but  I  don't  mean 
these  for  arguments — no — no.  I  lie  down  on  my 
child's  grave 2  and  fill  my  mouth  with  the  clay,  and 
say  nothing.  If  I  may  quote  my  own  lines — 

Oh !  what  is  there  to  do  ? 
Oh!  what  is  there  to  say? 

'  Nothing  ' — nothing  whatever.  But  then,  dear 
Mozley,  do  not  think  that  I  do  not  react  under  the 
stroke  :  I  am  not  merely  passive.  This  is  my  action. 
Death  teaches  me  to  act  thtts — to  cling  with  tenfold 

1  On  this  subject  cf.  the  letter  of  May  23,  1888. 

*  His  boy  Braddon  died  in  April,  1876.  How  this  blow  shook  him 
his  poetry  has  told ;  see  the  poem  called  '  Aber  Stations '  in  the 
volume  entitled  Old  John,  p.  23. 


90  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1880 

tenacity  to  those  that  remain.  A  man  might,  indeed, 
argue  thus.  The  pain  of  separation  from  those  we 
love  is  so  intense  that  I  will  not  love,  or,  at  least, 
I  will  withdraw  myself  into  a  delicate  suspension  of 
bias,  so  that  when  the  time  comes  I  may  not  feel  the 
pang,  or  hardly  feel  it.  This  would  be  the  economical 
view,  and  a  sufficiently  base  one.  But  I  am  taught  by 
death  to  run  the  fullest  flood  into  my  family  relations. 
The  ground  is  this.  He  is  gone :  I  have  no  certain 
ground  whatever  for  expecting  that  that  relation 
can  be  renewed.  Therefore,  I  am  thankful  that 
I  actualized  it  intensely,  ardently,  and  effectually, 
while  it  existed :  and  now  I  will  do  the  same  for  what 
is  left  to  me  :  nay,  I  will  do  much  more ;  for  I  did  not 
do  enough.  He  and  I  might  have  been  more  inter- 
twined, a  great  deal  more,  and  that  we  were  not 
appears  to  me  now  a  great  loss.  In  this,  as  in  every- 
thing else,  I  accept  the  words  of  the  Ecclesiast — 
4  What  thine  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy  might ; 
for' — you  know  the  rest.  I  accept  that  too.  This 
is  the  very  outcome :  often  I  am  otherwise,  but  this  is 
the  pivot  of  oscillation,  and  it  is  a  practical  one — we 
trust,  or,  at  any  rate,  lean  too  much  to  the  mere 
storge /  effort  is  needed  and  intention. 

Yes,  it  is  quite  true  about  the  4  Lamb ' : :  there  he 
lay,  upon  the  very  spot  the  child's  feet  had  rested  on, 
when  he  tried  to  climb.  Here,  too,  is  another  fact, 
but  I  have  put  it  into  rhyme 2. 

Ah,  Mozley,  Mozley ! 

1  See  Old  John,  p.  40. 

*  In  'Clevedon  Verses'  in  Old  John,  p.  84,  here  written  down  : 
And  so  unto  the  turf  her  ear  she  laid, 
To  hark  if  still  in  that  dark  place  he  played. 


i88i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  91 

To  Miss  CANNAN. 

CLIFTON, 

February  8,   1881. 

And  'True  Thomas'  is  gone.  What  has  he  not 
been  to  the  men  of  my  generation  ?  And  the  younger 
men  come  and  ask  one — What  was  it  ?  What  did  he 
teach  ?  and  so  forth ;  and,  of  course,  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said  in  that  direction.  And,  if  one  mumbles 
something  between  one's  teeth  (impatiently,  rather 
like  a  half-chewed  curse) — something  about  a  Baptism 
of  fire — my  graceful  adolescents  look  shocked,  and, 
for  the  most  part,  repeat  the  question, '  Yes,  yes,  but 
what  did  he  teach  ? '  To  which  (I  mean  when 
repeated]  there  is  no  possible  reply,  but  the  honest 

outspoken  'D .'    My  favourite  Carlyle  is  The  Life 

of  John  Sterling.  .  .  . 


TO  G.   H.  WOLLASTON. 

i  BEACH  COTTAGE,  SEATON,  DEVON, 
April  23,  1881. 

Judge  of  Seaton  as  a  municipiiim  from  the  fact  that 
your  letter  got  here  on  Tuesday  last,  and  has  only 
been  delivered  to-day !  Shall  I  kick  up  a  row  ? 
Shall  I  write  to  Bob  Fawcett?  No,  I  think  not: 
in  more  vigorous  days  (calida  juventa)  I  should 
probably  have  spilled  some  gall  over  it;  but  I  feel 
very  much  propitiated,  very  much  'subdooed,'  not 
unlike  that  dear  old  cook  in  Punch  who  told  her 
mistress  that  she  was  '  of  that  'appy  disposition  that 
she  felt  she  could  love  any  man.' 


92  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1881 

Our  beach  is  the  most  sparkling  one  I  ever  saw. 
It  is  chiefly  composed  of  fine  shingle — flint  is  the 
great  thing,  but  such  flint,  exquisitely  coloured,  and 
with  such  a  dewy  gleam  always  on  it.  Even  the  dry 
stuff,  above  high-water  mark,  is  never  dull  or  dim,  it 
seems  to  have  a  radiance  in  itself — bless  it !  Country 
inland  decidedly  dull,  except  for  primroses,  but 
primroses,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  one  now  begins  to 
postulate :  too  bad !  for  after  all,  what  is  like  them  ? 
Chalk,  chalk,  chalk — that  is  the  coast,  and  such  coasts 
have,  to  me,  always  a  blank  and  idiot  look.  The  cliffs 
seem  to  have  no  intelligent  appreciation  of  where 
they  are,  or  what  is  expected  of  them ;  the  very  sea 
has  got  tired  of  buffeting  their  poor  pasty  fronts — no 
struggle,  no  defiance,  no  grim  repose,  l  no  nothink.' 
Water  very  good  for  these  parts,  clear  and  without 
suspect.  Still,  I  should  not  think  of  coming  here  in 
the  long  holidays :  the  place  is  crammed,  I  believe,  in 
August ;  and  interior  being  deficient,  no  outlet  that 
way,  I  should  be  miserable. 

The  great '  broodin'  fact '  at  present  for  me  is  the 
chance  of  my  taking  my  grace-term :  in  the  autumn, 
and  going  with  P.  I  think  that  would  set  me  up. 

It  would  be  a  queer  contrast :  Dakyns  eastward,  I 
westward ;  Dakyns  in  'EAAdy,  I  in  Yankee  doodle- 
dom ;  Childe  Dakyns,  Squire  Brown.  You  come 
too  :  do !  The  one  disadvantage  about  our  adventure 
would  be  the  desperate  difficulty  of  settling  down 
to  school-mastering  again,  of  which— good  sooth — 
I  weary  more  and  more,  and  would  fain  see  some 
other  outlet,  some  Zoar, — but  not  in  Colorado— at 

1  Leave  of  absence  for  a  term. 


i88i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  93 

least,  I  suppose  not :  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  take  to 
bowie  knives  and  revolvers ;  the  trick  ought  to  be 
taught  in  childhood,  for  they  are  devilishly  nimble 
with  their  index-finger — those  gentlemen  in  Denver 
county. 


TO  G.  H.   WOLLASTON. 
A  mon  ami  G.  H.   W. 

Juin  25,   1 88  r. 

Evolene !   Evolene ! 

Ah  le  bon 

Wollaston  — 

Soit  beni 

Son  nom, 

Son  lit, 

Sa  reine 

Constance 

(Pas  de  France) 

Qui  me  mene 

A  Evolene,  a  Evolene, 

C'est  ma  faute 

A  moi  — 

Pourquoi 

Primesaute 

Depuis  trois 

Semaines, 

Ne  suis-j'  ici, 

Ainsi, 

Sans  gene 

A  Evolene,  a  Evolene? 


94  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1881 

Hier  soir 
C'etait  noir; 
Nues  d'ebene 
Firent  tonnerres, 
Les  eclairs 
Chasserent 
Mon  carrosse 
Et  mon  '  oss,' 
Comme  j'enfuis 
Par  la  pluie  — 
Oui,  oui, 
Grand'  peine  — 
You  bet! 
Rather  wet 
Bis  wir  sehen 
Evolene,  Evolene. 
A  Glion 
Le  Lion 
Britannique 
Et  sa  clique 
Tres-niaise; 
'Swell'  Anglais 
Tres-niais 
Doux  ministre 

S cuistre ; 

Allemand, 
Cad  in  grain, 
Fran£ais, 
Pseudo-gai. 
Tout  le  'lot,' 
Grand  '  rot,' 
Miirent  ma  haine ; 


i88i]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  95 

Et  je  vins, 

1  Slap  bang,' 

A  Evolene,  a  Evolene. 

Evolene !   Evolene ! 

Ce  n'est  pas — 

Helas! 

Pays  d'or, 

Ni  pays  du  dollar; 

C'est  le  pays  du  grand  Arolla(r), 

Mais  le  crime 

D'une  telle  rime 

Fait  horreur, 

Des  consequences, 

Je  me  lance 

Dans  silence. 

Souscrit 

T.  B. 


TO  G.   H.  WOLLASTON. 

HOTEL  BEL  ALP, 

July  5,  1881. 

This  is  the  place !  I  have  seen  nothing  to  compare 
with  it  for  a  moment.  It  blends  with  all  my  humours, 
and  mentally  it  makes  me  quite  absolute.  .  .  . 

One  ice  cave  had  an  altar  inside,  and  round  the 
altar,  and  far  away  into  the  inner  depths,  was  a  sea  of 
the  purest  water.  The  purity  of  that  altar !  It  seemed 
to  have  inside  it  a  fiery  globule  that  shifted  and 
clucked  (do  you  understand  ?). 

Tyndall  is  here :  last  night  he  sat  out  with  a  lot  of 
us,  as  we  took  our  post-prandial  coffee  and  what  not. 


96  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 

He  talked  well,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I  like  what 
I  have  seen  of  him.  He  is  quite  unaffected,  so  much 
so  as  not  to  mind  flinging1  out,  every  now  and  then, 
dashes  of  real  Hibernian  rhetoric.  .  .  . 

The  wavy  look  of  the  glacier  gives  one  an  irresistible 
impression  of  up  and  down  motion  as  of  the  sea,  and 
I  could  have  sworn  that  F.  &  Co.  were  rising  and 
falling  on  big,  heavy,  long  rollers.  I  told  him  after- 
wards he  looked  like  Moses  leading  the  children  of 
Israel  through  the  Red  Sea,  the  water  being  a  wall 
on  this  side  and  on  that.  The  comparison  failed  a 
little  in  the  personality — that  was  all.  Addio. 


To  H.  R.  KING. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

September  14,   1881. 

Many  thanks  for  the  Wordsworth.  I  have  read 
Mat's  Preface.  I  can't  say  I  am  satisfied  with  it,  though 
I  am  very  much  amused.  I  see  in  Crabb  Robinson's 
Diary  that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  recommend 
a  certain  order  of  reading  Wordsworth  ;  I  rather 
think  that  he  deemed  it  advisable  to  postpone  the 
reading  of  some  of  the  poems  till  the  Greek  Kalends. 
And  he  was  a  *  Wordsworthian.'  Probably,  therefore, 
Mat  is  right  in  principle,  but  he  is  certainly  arbitrary 
in  the  application  thereof.  He  has  retained  some 
poems — such  as  that  on  Burns — evidently  for  the 
sake  of  a  few  lines  or  stanzas,  not  for  the  excellency 
of  the  composition  as  a  whole.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  has  omitted  entire  peoms  ('  The  Cuckoo  '  ?)  of  the 
greatest  merit. 


i88a]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  97 

We  have  just  had  our  last  row  on  the  lake.  We 
left  it  jet,  and  steel,  and  gold.  How  sad  it  is !  I  can't 
affect  to  be  otherwise  than  wretched.  I  do  believe 
your  autumns  are  the  very  soul  of  the  lake  year; 
and  I  am  always  forced  to  go  away,  just  as  the 
intensity  of  the  sweetness  begins  to  deepen  to  its 
acme.  But — we  must  be  patient,  and  thankful  for 
what  we  have  had. 

I  was  at  Grasmere  on  Tuesday,  and  had  a  row  on 
the  lake,  also  a  long  and  loving  dream  over  the 
grave.  That  church  beck!  the  little  scamp — how 
does  it  contrive  to  check  its  pace,  and  hush  its  prattle, 
and  lean  its  little  elbow  against  the  wall,  and  creep 
beneath  the  bridge,  and  then  hurry-scurry  away  for 
the  lake  ?  and  what  a  colour  ! 

It  was  very  good  of  you  both  to  come  and  see  me, 
especially  in  my  dull  and  sodden  estate. 

To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

CLIFTON, 

June  4,  1882. 

To  think  that  we  should  have  a  chance  of  getting 
you  to  Keswick,  or  somewhere  near !  Directly  I  got 
your  first  letter,  I  began  seething  with  this  notion, 
so  did  Wollaston.  Our  plan  was  that  you  should  be  at 
Patterdale,  Wollaston  at  Grasmere,  and  I  at  Keswick. 
We  set  on  foot  inquiries.  At  present  we  stand  thus :  W. 
z£^7/be  at  Grasmere,  I  will  be  at  Keswick,  all  settled, 
signed  and  sealed.  But  where  will  you  be  ?  *  Ah !  ' 
say  you,  *  it  is  not  a  question  of  will,'  and  you  go  on 
doubtless  to  quote  Scripture,  and  Greek  tragedians, 
and  Evangelical  hymnologists,  as  usual, '  Oh,  where 

I  G 


98  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [igga 

shall  rest  be  found  ? '  .  .  .  Rest  shall  be  found.  Come 
to  the  Lakes  !  do  make  up  your  dear  old  mind  about 
that !  make  it  up,  and  lock  it  up,  and  sit  upon  it, 
corded  and  water-tight.  There  will  be  no  difficulty 
whatever.  Just  go  to  Keswick  to-morrow.  After  all 
that's  better  than  Patterdale.  Keswick  itself,  the  town, 
is  a  very  blessed  old  place.  There  is  no  promenade, 
no  regulation  turn-out  place  at  all ;  and  really,  con- 
sidering the  number  of  visitors,  it  is  surprising  how 
little  one  sees  of  them,  whereas  of  genuine  country 
folk  one  sees  a  great  deal.  Keswick  market-day 
(Saturday)  is  a  most  refreshing  sight.  The  pathos  of 
the  posies  (excuse  the  alliteration)  is  perfectly  thrilling 
— the  simple  old  cottage  garden  flowers  so  trustfully 
offered  you  as  good  and  sufficient.  But  the  fact  is, 
I  love  the  place  ;  and  whether  it  is  bracing  or  not 
I  don't  care,  I'd  rather  die  in  its  sweet  soft  arms,  than 
live  an  eternity  of  Tithono-Strudbrug  effeteness  at 
a  place  like  Whitby. 

Concerning  Oxford  I  have  not  much  to  say :  it  is 
decidedly  a  good  offer,  and  not  to  be  sneezed  at  for  a 
moment  (would  you  like  to  sneeze  at  it— just  a  moment? 
eh  ?  what? . . .  tchew  ! !  there  !  now  ...  all  right).  But 
my  selfishness  would  make  me  an  unfair  judge. 
Against  the  Bodleian  I  would  put  the  Great  Gable, 
against  New  College  Gardens  those  '  Fraternal  four  at 
Borrowdale,'  against  all  the  Thameses  in  the  universe 
one  sparkling  emerald  of  the  Greta.  Have  you  the 
furore  of  books  strong  ?  I  am  rather  sorry.  I  am 
beginning  to  think  it  would  have  been  much  better 
for  the  world  if  no  books  had  ever  been  written — 
scrawling  scribbles  on  the  walls  of  the  eternal  silence 


i882]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  99 

— ah,  blast  them!  What  sap  of  life  have  they  not 
wrung-  and  baked  and  cheese-pressed  out  of  me! 
Still  I  see  a  plan  which  is  only  too  obvious,  and 
which  would,  if  you  adopted  it,  dash  all  my  hopes : 
it  is  of  course  this — to  go  to  the  Lakes  from  June  to 
August,  while  things  are  decidedly  cheap  there,  and 
in  August  move  to  Oxford.  The  place  is  then  very 
sweet  and  soothing- — a  long-drawn  breath  of  ease,  or 
even  a  suspension,  a  dear  old  mother  sleeping  while  her 
children  play  in  divers  fields.  Hold  hard !  I  am  begin- 
ning to  fall  in  love  with  the  notion  myself.  Ah,  no  ! 
come  to  Keswick,  and  stay  there !  and  let  us  gather 
the  Skiddaw  blaeberries,  and  be  happy. 

Hitherto,  we  have  all  (except  perhaps  myself  ?) 
treated  Skiddaw  in  a  somewhat  flippant  fashion.  It 
is  such  an  obvious  hill,  with  a  town  and  a  railway 
station  at  its  foot,  and  a  regulated  footpath  and 
a  drinking-fountain,  and  a  refreshment  hut,  as  you 
go  up ;  but  it  has  inner  chambers :  it  is  mystic,  and 
remotis  rupibus,  I  have  heard  Bacchus  teaching-, 
and  the  nymphas  discentes,  and  far  beyond  them 
and  the  prick-ears  of  the  Capripedes,  I  have  seen 
my  purple  island,  my  Hesperid,  my  only  true  home 
on  this  earth.  And  if  you  would  go  there  with  me ! 
Why  not  ?  I  shall  in  any  case  be  going.  Would  not 
that  be  sacramental  ? 

TO  G.  H.  WOLLASTON. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

July  30,  1882. 

Peace !  that  is  the  word — and  soaking,  that  is  the 
other  word.  Ah,  well, — never  mind !  Friday  and 

G  2 


ioo  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i88a 

Saturday  were  glorious.  To-day  it  rains,  and  such  a 
blessed  muddle  of  hay  and  cows,  and  sheep,  and  lake 
and  mist — I  was  going  to  say  you  never  saw,  but 
verily  you  have,  and  often,  if  not  too  often.  But  does 
it  not  soothe  ?  Tell  me  that !  Is  it  not  sweet  ?  Does 
it  not  fill  up  all  the  crannies  of  the  soul  as  with 
a  soft  honey -cement  ?  Go  to!  no  sea!  and  only  the 
delicate  mica- film  of  Mona  away  there  in  the  west — 
the  darling  little  thing  cherub-watched,  and  nigh 
inscrutable. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

Novtmbfr  4,   i88a. 

You  are  quite  right  about  these  stories1.  Keltic, 
that  is  it ;  the  Kelt  emerging  if  you  will,  but  the  Kelt, 
if  I  may  say  so,  a  good  deal  hardened  and  corrupted 
by  the  Saxon.  That  is  Tom  Baynes ;  that  is  myself, 
in  fact.  I  never  stopped  for  a  moment  to  think 
what  Tom  Baynes  should  be  like:  he  simply  is  I, 
just  such  a  crabbed  text,  blurred  with  scholia  'in 
the  margent,'  as  is  your  humble  servant.  So  when 
I  am  alone,  I  think  and  speak  to  myself  always  as 
he  does. 

Of  death,  my  dear  Mozley,  I  have  just  one  thing  to 
say.  I  came  from  Harrogate2  with  this  thought: 
'  Death  is  not  after  all  so  terrible.  It  is  so  natural, 
such  an  action,  such  a  part  of  life,  that  I  do  not  believe 
I  shall  ever  again  fear  it  much.'  This  thought  was 
conceived  under  somewhat  favourable  conditions :  for 

1  His  poems.  •  Where  his  brother  died. 


i883]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  101 

my  brother  was  a  very  sweet-tempered,  kindly  man, 
with  great  moral  strength  and  self-control.  He  could 
not  have  done  anything,  could  not  even  have  died,  in 
an  abject  manner.  That,  I  should  say,  must  be  very 
terrible.  But  looking  on  death  as  a  thing  to  be  done, 
and  done  well,  an  action  which  may  have  its  own 
nobility,  I  think  we  can  feel  very  happy. 

TO  G.   H.  WOLLASTON. 


DU  PARC,  LUGANO, 

May  1 8,  1883. 

1  Gefesselt '  wie  under s  ?  you  too  got  caught,  en- 
tangled you  said.  One  does,  physically  as  well  as 
morally.  I  have  not  the  slightest  wish  ever  to  leave 
this  place.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  on  it. 
But  even  my  'word  of  honour'  is  a  thing  hardly 
worth  offering  from  here.  Honour  melts,  and  an 
irresistible  desire  to  shake  off  its  fetters,  together  with 
all  other 4  considerations,'  is  the  one  thing  that  presses. 
For  instance,  to  write  some  frightful  lie  to  Wilson, 
showing  cause  why  I  can't  leave  Lugano  for  a  month 
yet,  were  an  excellent  device,  and  surely  a  pious  fraud, 
if  pious  fraud  there  be. 

Here  is  a  chaplain :  he  is  a  D.D.  and  an  archdeacon  ; 
but  I  could  easily  represent  to  Wilson  that  this  man  has 
taken  to  drinking  heavily,  and  that  Beha  has  earnestly 
entreated  me  to  take  his  place  until  a  suitable  evan- 
gelistic successor  turns  up.  Morality  should  not  hinder 
me,  but  the  limits  of  probability  as  affecting  cold 
northern  natures  must  necessarily  condition  my 
methods  of  deception. 


102  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1883 

1 .  I  have  been  up  to  San  Salvatore  with  E. 

2.  I  have  been  up  Monte  Bre  alone. 

3.  We  have  all  three  driven  round  S.  Bernardo. 

4.  We  have  all  three  been  to  Porlezza  and  back. 

5.  All  three  to  Ponte  Tresa  and  back. 

6.  All  three  to  Porlezza,  Menaggio,  Como,  and  so 
home  by  rail. 

To-day  we  intend  all  three  going  up  M.  Generoso. 
We  shall  go  in  the  evening,  as  the  heat  begins  to  be 
very  burning.  My  walk  up  M.  Bre  was  terrifically 
hot.  That  was  yesterday. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  of  these  '  climms,'  such  as 
they  are,  for  they  are  test '  climms '  which  satisfy  me 
that  I  can  go  up  any  ordinary  English  mountain,  and 
make  my  paths  straight  for  Keswick  this  summer. 
Moreover,  on  Monte  Br£  did  not  some  women  exclaim, 
1  Come  1'uomo  va ! '  God  grant  that  this  was  not 
derisive !  I  don't  think  it  was.  I  was  nearly  dead, 
but  I  did  my  best  to  affect  a  fine  long  swing,  as  of 
lithest  athlete — Ay  di  mi/  (is  that  Carlyle's  way  of 
spelling  it  ?). 

I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  people.  A  girl  on 
the  Como  boat  (Whitsun  Monday,  festa  folk)  was  a 
marvel  of  physical  beauty.  With  her  was  her  lover, 
not  handsome,  and  a  goose.  But  who  would  not 
have  been  a  goose  for  such  a  face  ?  Still,  of  tender- 
ness not  one  suggestion — all  fire,  and  not  celestial  fire 
either.  Ah,  goose !  goose !  poor  singed  goose !  on  ion - 
stuffed  perchance!  what  fate  will  be  his  with  that 
splendid  salamander  ? 

An  awful  climate,  isn't  it  ? 

A  terrible  soil  that  seems  to  throw  out  these  human 


i883]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  103 

pomegranate  blooms  in  a  moment.  She  looked  as  if 
she  had  just  been  born — bless  her — and  her  goose ! 
nay,  a  goose  must  take  care  of  himself.  Very  different 
from  this  fire  angel,  flame-winged,  literally  burning 
coal  of  beauty,  with  her  pretensions,  her  mantilla,  her 
ready,  prompt  meeting  of  all  eyes,  was  an  absolutely 
celestial  creature,  that  I  met  the  other  day,  bearing 
her  big  basket,  containing  manure  (I  think).  This 
girl  smiled  at  me,  a  distinct  good  sweet  smile  -now  is 
it  not  marvellous  ?  At  me.  Just  like  a  flower — she 
saw  me  before  her,  no  other  man — and  it  was  necessary 
to  smile.  Derision?  Good  God!  no:  like  the  flowers, 
3)uft,  pollen — you  know  about  those  things ;  a  natural 
and  most  wholesome  and  lovable  expansion.  The 
eyes  were  of  a  colour  which  I  cannot  determine,  and 
I  like  such  eyes ;  the  fact  is,  they  look  at  you,  they 
melt  down  through  the  whole  gamut  of  colour  and 
leave  off  with  a  tongue  of  the  softer  fire.  Her  face 
was  not  oval,  but  very  broad ;  the  forehead  of  the  real 
tenuis  Horatio -Lycoridian  type.  As  I  have  not  yet 
come  upon  any  gentians,  I  accept  this  girl  in  lieu  of 
all  gentians  and  other  Alpine  glories. 


To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON  COLLEGE, 

October  30,   1883. 

I  went  up  to  the  great '  gaudy '  at  Oriel.  I  should 
have  liked  so  much  to  have  had  an  introduction  to 
your  uncle,  the  author  of  the  Reminiscences.  He 
was  there,  but  quite  silent :  I  was  separated  from  him, 


io4  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1883 

being  at  the  general  table,  while  he  was  among  the 
Dii  majores.  He  looked  such  a  dear  old  mischievous 
jackdaw  of  a  man.  His  book  is  one  of  the  most 
delightful,  and,  I  think,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  that 
has  appeared  since  the  Confessions  of  Jean  Jacques. 

(About  1883.) 

The  Orlando  Furioso—hsxt  you  read  it?  It  is 
just  now  my  constant  companion.  What  a  brilliant 
bird-of-paradise  sort  of  creature  it  is!  I  think  the 
hard  enamel  of  this  Italian  reprobate  pleases  me 
better  than  Spenser  with  his  soft  velvet  carpet,  on 
which  you  walk  ankle-deep  in  the  moss  of  yielding 
allegory. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

October  30,   1883. 

We  took  the  Wilsons  up  behind  Lodore1,  and  so 
away  on  the  heights  above  Troutdale,  descending  at 
last  into  Troutdale  itself.  This  was  in  many  respects 
a  miraculous  day,  because  it  held  up  most  marvel- 
lously; there  was  no  sunshine  at  all,  but  an  eternal 
grey,  peaceful,  ever  happy,  and  deliciously  sweet  and 
soothing.  A  great  sheet  seemed  to  have  been  let 
down  knit  at  the  four  corners  (Skiddaw,  Great  Gable, 
Bowfell,  Helvellyn),  in  which  were — well,  I  can't 
exactly  say.  Wilson  took  to  crag  climbing,  at  which 
he  is  very  good :  his  greatest  delight  was  to  get  my 
youngest  girl  (a  small  person  of  some  twelve)  to  climb 
with  him.  We  got  the  Wilsons  to  go  up  Saddleback. 

1  Account  of  walks  at  the  Lakes. 


1884]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  105 

Wilson  went  up  the  sharp  edge  like  a  deer,  and  pro- 
nounced it  absolutely  *  ridiculous.' 

Of  sea  I  have  to  report  deep  indigo,  with  stripes  of 
grey  \  both  fretted  with  a  fine  breeze. 

Of  land,  a  patchwork  of  green  and  brown,  very 
good  and  clear.  Of  mountains,  a  haystacky  greeny- 
brown,  quite  clear,  but  somewhat  vulgar  and  obvious. 
Of  the  '  brews '  (brows,  slopes  by  sea),  astonishing 
abundance  of  hawkweed,  lady's  bedstraw,  harebell, 
little  blue  scabious,  wild  liquorice,  wild  thyme,  and 
convolvulus  (striped  pink  and  white),  all  mad  with 
the  merriest  sunshine,  a  sunshine  that  really  tickles 
you. 

To  Miss  CANNAN. 

KESWICK, 

September  13,  1884. 

This  is  what  Mrs.  Brown  calls  the  '  spirited  portrait,' 
an  expression  which,  as  I  take  it,  conveys  somewhat 
of  reproach.  It  implies  that  I  don't  always  look 
4  spirited ' — this  is  to  be  regretted  rather  than  remedied : 
let  us  thank  God  for  the  one  '  bit  o'  spir't '  that  owns, 
however  casually,  to  have  visited  me  in  my  declining 
years. 

I  have  now  had  a  long  holiday,  indeed  nearly  three 
months,  and  feel  very  strong  in  a  rugged  sort  of  way ; 
but  I  never  trust  that  sort  of  strength  much. 

Five  weeks  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  spent  very  quietly, 
were  most  delightful.  I  lived  on  harebells,  lady's 
bedstraw,  green  waving  barley,  and  a  crisp  NW. 
breeze.  Here  we  have  all  gone  in  for  the  activities. 

1  i.  e.  Manx  Sea.     He  went  to  the  Island  from  the  Lakes. 


io6  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 


We  have  been  up  all  the  high  mountains,  and  over 
most  of  the  passes.  All  my  children  go  on  these 
expeditions. 

One  very  melancholy  thing  has  happened  almost 
at  our  door.  I  mean  the  death  of  poor  Mr.  A.  He 
died  at  Morecambe  about  three  weeks  ago,  and 
was  buried  at  Crosby  Ravensworth  (his  '  ain  place  ') : 
I  was  at  the  funeral.  Such  a  lovely  spot,  folded  in 
among  the  moors,  itself  a  cradle  of  green  velvet — no 
railway,  no  tourist,  God's  eternal  peace. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

October  14,   1884. 

Do  you  know  that  Ennerdale  Bridge  is  a  fearful 
sell  ?  Brand  new  church,  splendid  new  board  school, 
the  churchyard  full  of — well,  a  good  many  natural 
graves  \  but  also  well  stocked  with  headstones  dating 
from  a  time  earlier  than  Wordsworth,  the  dear  old 
impostor  '  for  the  nones.'  We  turned  away  in  disgust, 
and  walked  on  to  the  Angler's  Rest.  This  was  most 
soothing  to  our  exasperated  minds.  The  lake  was 
a  fine  blue,  and  there  was  a  strong  breeze  blowing  on 
it.  It  is  seldom  you  see  one  of  our  lakes  like  this. 
Dakyns  could  not  get  it  out  of  his  head  that  it  was 
a  salt-water  loch.  In  the  starlit  darkness,  later,  we 

1  This  fragment  of  a  letter  refers  to  the  lines  of  Wordsworth  in 
'  The  Brothers '  :— 

' In  our  churchyard 
Is  neither  epitaph  nor  monument, 
Tombstone  nor  name— only  the  turf  we  tread 
And  a  few  natural  graves.'    To  Jane,  his  wife, 
Thus  spake  the  homely  Priest  of  Ennerdale.— J.  R.  M. 


i885]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  107 

walked  up  and  down  on  the  little  pier,  and  dis- 
cussed the  Oedipus  Tyrannus  in  a  way  sufficiently 
exhausting,  if  not  exhaustive.  It  was  a  night  to 
remember. 


To  G.  QUARRY. 

VENTNOR,  ISLE  OF  WIGHT, 

January  20,   1885. 

Thank  you  very  much  for  the  satire.  Satire  is  an 
undoubted  branch  of  poetry ;  but  I  do  not  affect  it 
much.  There  is  a  strong,  healthy,  noble  satire,  the 
saeva  indignatio  of  the  Latin  classics.  But,  short  of 
that,  satire  seems  only  an  element  of  discontent  and 
unhappiness. 

I  know  the  '  pip,'  the  '  black  pigs '  too,  know  them 
well ;  but  they  are  quite  beneath  contempt ;  and  nothing 
on  earth  would  induce  me  to  cross  the  bright  blue  of 
my  serenity.  I  have  a  great  notion  of  being  the 
master  of  my  own  happiness,  and  not  suffering  it  to  be 
contingent  on  the  manners  and  conduct  of  other 
people. 

If  a  man  slights  me,  he  does  me  no  harm ;  but  if 
his  conduct  is  detrimental  to  the  general  good,  if  he 
is  unjust,  a  villain  in  high  place,  a  seducer,  a  poison, 
a  snare  to  the  innocent,  then  have  at  him !  though, 
constitutionally,  I  had  rather  leave  him  alone. 

The  sum  of  happiness  in  the  world  is  not  too  large. 
I  would  like,  if  possible,  to  increase  it  by  the  modest 
contribution  of  my  own  store.  If  so,  I  must  guard 
it  from  all  disturbance ;  and  poetry  enables  me  to  do 
this,  gives  me  a  thousand  springs  of  joy,  in  none  of 


io8  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1885 

which  there  is  one  drop  of  bitterness— and  thank 
God  for  that ! 

We  are  here  in  the  I.  of  Wight,  busy  comparing 
it  with  the  I.  of  Man,  of  course.  It  is  really  a  beautiful 
island,  not  merely  as  regards  richness  of  vegetation, 
an  ornament  that  just  now  is  not  available,  but  also 
for  its  configuration.  The '  lay  of  the  land,'  the  attitude, 
and  gesture  of  the  lines  are  admirable.  The  coast 
is  dismally  inferior  to  ours  ;  glens  are  not  to  be  seen, 
and  streams  are  puny,  but  very  clean.  On  the  whole 
we  give  the  preference  to  Mona,  and  that  upon  purely 
aesthetic,  not  patriotic,  grounds. 

I  hope  you  are  all  well  and  thriving.  Accept  my 
best  wishes  for  the  New  Year.  Your  satire  discloses 
perhaps  a  slight  biliary  secretion — all  satire,  I  fear, 
is  bile — I  hope  I  may  impute  it  to  Christmas  festivities 
rather  than  to  any  permanent  disorder ! 

PS. — I  return  the  verses,  as  I  think  you  would  like 
to  keep  them. 


To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

May  7,  1885. 

I  stayed  nearly  a  week  longer  at  Cadenabbia,  alone. 
I  went  up  to  the  San  Martino,  and  continued  my  walk 
on  to  the  Monte  Crocione.  Here  I  came  upon  the 
most  perfect  paradise  of  flowers  I  ever  beheld  any- 
where, and  was  helped  to  pick  them  by  the  most 
exquisite  of  nature's  gentlemen,  a  young  Italian 
peasant,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  farmer.  I  also 
climbed  Monte  San  Primo.  Much  of  my  walk  that 


i885]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  109 

day  I  had  in  company  with  a  merry  little  shopkeeper 
of  Bellagio.  I  was  forced  to  talk  some  sort  of  Italian, 
and  we  talked  and  laughed,  and  walked  and  chaffed, 
and  ate  and  drank  with  each  other.  I  was  about 
seven  or  eight  hours  in  his  company. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

May  25,  1885. 

Victor  Hugo  !  I  am  one  of  the  Hugo-maniacs, 
absolutely  certain  that  there  has  been  no  poet  like 
him  since  Shakespeare.  It  is  very  curious,  is  it  not  ? 
how  absolutely  certain  we  Hugonians  feel  about  this. 
It  seems  to  me  quite  amazing  that  it  is  not  universally 
recognized.  I  know  that  I  ought  not  to  be  amazed  ; 
but  I  assure  you  that  I  am,  most  unfeignedly.  I  don't 
want  you  to  argue  with  me  at  all,  but  merely  to 
constater  it  as  a  fact,  that  there  are  men  to  whom  this 
position  of  Victor  Hugo  in  the  history  of  literature 
seems  as  axiomatically  obvious  as  the  position  of  the 
sun  in  the  solar  system. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY  1. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

September  10,  1885. 

Shortly  before  leaving  Clifton  a  worthy  Frenchman 
put  into  my  hands  Reynaud's  Terre  et  Ciel,  a  mystico- 
theological  scientific  book  of  enormous  dimensions, 
and  considerable  pretensions.  That  has  gone  a  long 
way  ;  I  have  read  it !  I  have  read,  with  much  pleasure, 

1  Written  while  laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle. 


no  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1885 

Mrs.  Gaskell's  Wives  and  Daughters,  and  am  much  in 
love  with  Molly  Gibson,  whose  father  also  is  very  nice. 
But  the  great  discovery,  or  rather  re -disco  very,  has 
been  Scott.  I  have  read  Waverley,  Old  Mortality, 
Woodstock,  Redgauntlet,  Bride  of  Lammermoor, 
Rob  Roy,  and  am  now  reading  Quentin  Durward. 
They  quite  spring  on  me,  these  old  darlings.  What 
a  man ! !  I  am  full  of  '  wonder,  love,  and  praise  '  ; 
I  seem  to  see  all  manner  of  great  and  good  things ; 
but  the  main  thing  is — the  joy  and  the  glory  of  it  all 
is — what  I  suppose  the  French  mean  by  verve,  at  any 
rate  what  I  understand  by  that  favourite  term  of 
French  criticism.  The  inexhaustible  streaming  and 
bubbling  up  of  the  great  old  heart  of  him,  his  own 
boundless  enjoyment  of  it  all ;  this  is  health  to  the 
navel  and  marrow  to  the  bones. 


To  THE  REV.  E.  W.  KlSSACK. 

CLIFTON, 

September  18,  1885. 

Many  thanks  for  your  kind  thoughtfulness.  I  have, 
however,  a  copy  of  my  father's  poems,  which  was 
given  me  lately  by  '  Brown  of  the  Times  1  and  I  do  not 
think  I  want  another,  nor  ought  I,  in  fact,  to  trespass 
on  Mrs.  Gawne's  goodness.  Perhaps  you  would  like 
to  keep  the  copy  yourself;  these  little  «i/i7jAia  have 
value  for  those  who  remember  and  cherish  the  re- 
membrance of  old  times.  There  is  no  house  which 
could  more  appropriately  contain  this  volume  than 
the  Rectory  of  Bride. 

We  should  not  forget  either  that  true  woman  of 


i88S]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  in 

genius,  Hester  Nelson.  Often  I  think  of  her,  and 
her  early  doom;  and  Bride  seems  to  me  a  shrine 
of  splendid  promise  and  aspirations  unfulfilled  save 
in  God.  Is  she  buried  there  ?  I  suppose  so.  My 
father  thought  very  highly  of  her  poems.  Some  he 
thought  worthy  of  Milton.  And  that  was  all  breathed 
in  and  bred  from  your  Bride  hills,  and  the  long 
stretches  of  the  Ayre.  Could  you  possibly  get  me 
a  copy  of  her  poems  ?  You  would  be  conferring  on 
me  an  inestimable  favour. 

Yes,  I  am  lame,  a  '  lamiter,'  as  they  say  in  Yorkshire. 
But  I  must  not  complain;  I  have  had  a  delightful 
quiet  time,  good  for  the  mind  and  soul  of  me,  and  not 
amiss  for  the  body  either.  Our  first  disappointment 
has  been  my  inability  to  get  over  to  the  Island.  I  feel 
how  precious  the  time  is  '  in  that  particular,'  knowing 
how  unlikely  it  is  that  I  shall  have  many  more  op- 
portunities of  seeing  the  dearest  of  my  old  friends, 
the  Archdeacon.  I  had  even  been  flattering  myself 
with  the  thought  that  he  would  have  let  me  preach 
before  him  this  year,  and  I  had  been  meditating  some 
words  such  as  might  have  cheered  him,  both  as  regards 
the  bourne  to  which  he  is  hastening,  and  the  fidelity 
to  his  memory  and  to  his  principles  of  those  whom 
he  will,  in  all  probability,  leave  behind  him.  To  me 
it  would  have  been  an  interesting  occasion,  and  for 
myself  profitable,  as  it  would  have  put  one  upon 
considering  how  much  of  the  old  belief  I  still  retain, 
a  consideration  the  outcome  of  which  would  have 
been  to  realize  that  in  all  essentials  I  am  heartily  in 
agreement  still  with  this  truly  wise  and  good  man. 
With  the  eye  steadily  fixed  on  the  further  shore,  the 


ii2  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1885 

windings  and  aberrations  of  any  course  which  has  not 
been  a  vicious  one  are  lost  in  the  straightness  of  that 
single  aim.  And  at  last  we  shall  meet  there,  some  by 
a  direct  and  simple  passage,  others  by  long  tacks 
and  beatings  to  windward.  On  the  beach  stands  the 
one  Christ. 

To  HASTINGS  CROSSLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

December  29,   1885. 

I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for  your  great 
kindness.  It  would,  indeed,  be  most  delightful  if 
I  could  accept  your  invitation,  an  invitation  so 
thoughtful,  so  thought  out  in  the  pleasantest  alterna- 
tives and  dovetailings  of  tempting  facility.  But  I  am 
quite  a  prisoner  still. 

Altogether,  my  holidays  must  be  given  to  the 
pursuit  of  health  under  one  of  her  most  obvious  con- 
ditions, to  wit,  that  of  locomotion.  No  progress  that 
I  may  make  in  this  art  will  lead  me  as  far  as  Ireland. 
It  is  provoking,  and  indeed  I  am  provoked,  and 
disappointed,  and  rather  weary.  Such  perfect  kind- 
ness and  goodness  as  yours  comes  like  sunshine 
through  the  cloud,  but  what  would  it  not  be  to 
realize  the  happiness  of  it  all  there,  at  Glenburn — the 
very  name  of  the  place  suggestive,  arrident  ? 

Here  I  had  your  brother-in-law,  but  he  is  gone 
to  Lyme  with  Davies.  I  rejoice  to  think  that  he  is 
having  this  change,  not,  you  may  be  sure,  without 
due  remembrance  of  Persuasion,  and  that  dreadful 
accident  on  the  *  Cobb ' — is  that  the  name  of  the 
bulwark  there  ? 


i885]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  113 

Now  that  he  is  gone,  I  am  with  my  books,  and  that 
is  rather  pleasant.  I  don't  know  whether  you  read 
Italian ;  but  I  think  you  do.  It  is  a  great  fad  of  mine 
to  try  luck  upon  the  things  our  forefathers  liked,  the 
books,  one  might  perhaps  say,  that  formed  them.  Of 
course  I  mean  the  books.  Now  one  sees  everywhere 
what  a  person  Petrarch  has  been  !  what  an  influence ! 
Wherever  I  see  this  kind  of  thing,  I  set  myself 
diligently  to  realize  it.  I  will  not  permit  the  fraction 
of  a  doubt  as  to  the  justice  of  their  admiration. 
I  believe  implicitly  that  our  forbears  were  not  fools, 
and  that  they  knew  what  they  were  about.  I  begin, 
therefore,  by  defying  all  carpers  and  sneerers  who 
would  tell  me  that  Petrarch  was  artificial,  and  so 
forth.  There  must  be  more  in  the  matter  than  this. 
The  results  are  always  most  satisfactory.  I  have 
succeeded  by  constant,  patient,  reverent  reading  of 
the  Rime  in  tuning  my  mind  to  the  pitch  of  circiter 
1350.  I  mean,  of  course,  to  the  point  of  reading  the 
poems  with  the  bona  fides,  sympathy,  and  surrender 
which  it  is  quite  certain  the  men  of  his  own  time 
readily  granted  to  Petrarch,  and  which  for  centuries 
afterwards  this  noble  poet  obtained  at  the  hands  of 
the  ingenuous.  This  is  a  great  thing  to  gain,  if  but  for 
a  moment,  a  Pisgah -glimpse  of  retrospective  vision. 

But  I  must  not  presume  upon  my  privilege  of 
invited  guest  to  bore  you  with  my  pleasures  or  my 
pains. 

I  think  I  do  know  S.  well.  What  many  people 
might  not  so  readily  observe  is  his  strength.  The 
man  is  the  finest  Damask  steel ;  I  have  never  conversed 
with  a  more  graceful  or  more  athletic  mind. 

I  H 


ii4  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1885 


TO  A.  M.  WORTHINGTON. 

CLIFTON, 

December  30,  1885. 

W.  tells  me  that  you  are  studying  mathematics  with 
a  view  to  the  higher  physics — Macte  virtttte  /  That 
is  certainly  good,  much  better,  more  masculine,  sane, 
and  noble,  than  our  eternal  teaching  of  beggarly 
elements.  Go  on,  Worthington !  no  treadmill  for  you 
but  a  scala  caeli/  Meantime  I  also— well,  no — I'm 
not — I'm  nowhere.  ...  I  have  a  trick,  a  dodge,  an 
as  who  would  say  homo  sum,  &c. ;  but  my  studies  are 
mere  sympathies,  caught  casual  from  brambles  by  the 
way — a  flower,  sir,  mayhap,  a  poor  flower  at  your 
service— a  very  wretched  little  flower — has  a  smell 
perchance,  a  colour—  ay  di  mi/  *  creeses  !  creeses! 
who'll  buy  my  fresh  creeses  ? '  comes  to  '  creeses ' 
after  all. 

There  is  one  trick  I  would  fain  learn,  and  that  is 
the  homely  trick  of  walking  upon  my  legs  like 
a  man  — '  Homo  sum'  Yes,  but  what's  the  good  of 
that,  if  I  am  only  implumis  and  not  bipes  •>  Positively 
the  doctors  have  done  nothing  for  me,  and  I  am  after 
all  to  go  up  and  see  Sir  James  Paget.  I  can't  walk 
200  yards,  and  that  is  crawling. 

To  me,  thus,  enter  the  patrons  of  three  livings: 
Aberford  near  Leeds,  Wray  on  Windermere,  and 
a  place  in  Berkshire.  Of  course  I  can't  go  and  see 
these  interesting  'cures,'  so  must  forbear  them.  Wray 
is  delicious ;  no  need  for  me  to  go  and  see  it ;  and 
Wray  is  £100  a  year.  SoJ'y  suis,fy  reste ;  and  this 
demi-semi  dip  into  the  ecclesiastical  lucky-bag  has 


i885]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  115 

given  me  rather  a  turn,  a  turn  which  may  affect  my 
plans  seriously  and  permanently. 

My  old  friend  M.,  like  the  '  goodest '  of  creatures, 
went  and  saw  the  Leeds  place  for  me  :  even  wrote  to 
me  from  the  Swan  Inn,  Aberford,  a  detailed  account 
of  all  and  sundry  the  matters  pertaining  to  the  poor 
problem.  But  he  finishes  by  saying  that  I  ought  not 
to  take  a  living — void  le  texte.  1 1  believe  that  God 
and  Christ  (for  you  know  that  I  believe  in  their  ever- 
living  power  as  in  that  of  all  good  and  true  spirits 
who  each  in  their  order  have  passed  through  death) 
could  open  to  you  truer  ways  of  life,  and  will  if  you 
trust  them.'  These  are  bracing  words,  and  perhaps 
I  needed  them :  but  we  shall  see.  ...  I  shall  probably 
go,  and  Mrs.  Brown  with  me,  to  Eastbourne.  Do 
you  know  the  place  ?  Would  Hastings  be  better  ? 
I  see,  by  the  papers,  Parnell  is  there.  I  should 
so  like  to  meet  him:  we  would  cheer  each  other 
about  Home  Rule  ;  in  fact,  I  would  propound  to 
him  a  constitution,  viz.  that  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  .  .  . 
24  Keys,  or  Taxiarchi.  There  are  4  provinces  in 
Ireland,  are  there  not  ?  24  is  divisible  by  4  ...  ^, 
voila  tout !  What  fools  politicians  are  ! 

Being  pregnant  with  these  imperial  purposes  I 
receive  an  invitation  from  the  Crossleys,  and  how 
I  should  like  to  go !  suppressing  for  the  nonce  my 
Fenian  projects.  But — 

The  engagement  of  S.  is  in  many  ways  very 
delightful ;  but  perhaps  perilously  delightful !  How 
I  shall  pray  for  them  !  For,  if  it  is  precarious,  so  are 
all  the  loveliest  things.  .  .  .  Let  us  pray. 

Dakyns  has  levanted,  I  don't  know  where,  but  very 
H  2 


u6  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1885 

likely  to  the  Levant.  Irwin  is  down  at  Lyme  Regis 
smoking  with  Davies,  and  trying  to  ensnare  that 
Welsh  person  into  the  charmed  circle  of  Jane  Austen 
and  Persiiasion. 

For  me,  I  read  much  French  and  Italian  ;  have 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Lamartine ;  have  read 
Petrarch  (Rime)  all  through^  the  first  time  I  ever 
did  that.  I  really  think  I  should  have  been  a  very 
accomplished,  perhaps  even  delightful  youth,  if  I 
had  done  these  things  thirty-five  years  ago.  Now 
it  seems  like  decorating  a  tomb ;  smothering  my 
dismal  old  coffin  with  wreaths — conventional  ?  no ! 
no  !  don't  say  that !  Petrarch  has  sap  in  him.  How 
all  the  generations  have  sucked  the  juice !  There  can 
be  no  mistake  about  it.  Hang  the  coffin  !  apricos 
necteflores :  and  let  them  be  a  garland  for  grey  hairs, 
but  not  for  death !  I  believe  in  the  art  of  medicine 
rather  than  in  that  of  surgery  as  applied  to  the  soul. 
We  must  have  faith  ;  put  into  you  good  and  gracious 
and  salubrious  things,  and  somehow  or  other  they  shall 
sweeten  your  blood,  making  it  perfumed,  ichorian. 
I  could  write  a  prescription.  Recipe  Petrarchi  viii. 
&c.,  &c.  .  .  .  Capiat.  Fill  it  up  as  you  will. 

I  am  constantly  wearying and  '  sich  '  with  this 

notion  of  mine.  But  they  have  got  so  engrained  in 
them  the  idea  of  direct  and  conscious  imitation  which 
their  classical  scholarship  has  made  habitual  and 
necessary  to  their  mind's  movement  that  I  can't  stir 
up  much  faith  in  '  those  cold  hearts  of  theirs.'  For 
the  highest  uses  I  am  confident  that  you  must  take 
in  the  influences  through  the  skin,  through  the  chyle, 
through  repeated  but  ineffable  infrications,  baths, 


i885]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  117 

emollients,  smells,  tacts,  drops,  bedewings,  expositions 
as  of  ozone  paper — in  short,  quiet  submitting^  of 
one's  self  to  the  spirit  one  loves  and  desires.  My 
father  taught  me  this  method ;  vulgarly,  you  may 
call  it  the  '  soaking '  method.  Now,  if  Hebe  were  to 
make  my  bath,  it  would  be  such  an  one. 

When  are  you  likely  to  come  here?  Mind  you 
stay  with  us  when  you  do.  From  the  pole  opposite 
to  yours  I  feel  that  we  can  meet  in  a  congenial  centre. 
But  it  is  all  at  your  expense,  I  must  admit.  I  cannot 
follow  you  into  your  mathematico-physical  cave.  I 
don't  'do  with'  caves  of  any  kind.  But  you  seem 
never  to  have  any  difficulty  in  getting  out  among  the 
flowers,  and  the  hearts  and  the  'like  o'  yandhar.1 
I  rather  think  you  are  to  be  the  more  envied.  To 
come  out  from  a  keen  abstract  atmosphere  of  problem 
into  the  sunshine  of  vitality,  emotional,  conscious 
vitality — what  a  sensation  !  You  have  it,  I  have  not. 
Are  you  something  like  a  miner  ?  blinded  by  the 
light,  staggering  heavily  with  laden  eyes  against  the 
dawn  when  your  night-shift  is  over  ?  I  don't  think 
so.  You  come  out  and  begin  to  play  immediately. 
Does  that  mean  that  you  have  not  been  far  in  ? 
No,  I  think  not.  I  must  drop  the  mine:  it's  not 
a  mine  ;  it's  a  mountain,  and  you  come  down  to  the 
valley  and  the  games. 

Particularly  remember  me  most  kindly  to  Mrs. 
Worthington,  who,  I  hope,  is  getting  much  stronger 
than  I.  All  join  in  affectionate  wishes  for  the  New 
Year. 


n8  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1886 


To  Miss  CANNAN. 

CLIFTOM, 

March  i,  1886. 

I  begin  to  feel  something  like  an  old  wrecker 
down  on  a  lee  shore  after  sunset,  watching  the  big 
ships. 

My  brother  has  ringed  me  round  all  my  life  with 
moral  strength  and  abettance  ;  I  hardly  knew  how 
much.  What  is  it  ?  Not  direct  control  or  suggestion, 
but  a  sort  of  taking  each  other  for  granted.  You 
know  something  of  it,  and  you  know  the  blank  on 
the  other  side  of  the  leaf  too. 

In  many  ways  I  am  well  content.  My  brother  had 
had  a  glorious  life,  had  hit  hard,  and  thoroughly 
realized  his  blows.  In  his  best  lectures  he  has  said 
things  which  are  contributions  to  the  literature — hard- 
headed,  racy,  brilliant,  humorous  things ;  things  most 
delightful,  most  original;  things  easily  apprehended 
of  and  not  easily  forgotten  by  the  people. 

It  is  a  great  thing  for  his  children  to  have  had 
such  a  father :  they  speak  of  him  as  their  *  glorious 
father.1  He  was,  though  I  say  it,  of  a  good  stock. 
We  have  a  Keltic  root  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  but  of  that 
he  seemed  to  have  little  or  nothing.  I  don't  under- 
value it,  only  he  hadn't  it  in  him.  He  was  his  mother's 
own  child :  I  wish  you  had  known  her,  she  was 
a  great  woman.  A  pure  borderer  she  was — her  father 
a  Thomson  from  the  Scotch  side,  her  mother  a 
Birkett  from  the  Cumbrian  side  of  Cheviot.  I  don't 
suppose  the  earth  contains  a  stronger  race,  and  she 
had  all  its  strength  :  she  was  typical ;  so  was  my 


,886]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  119 

brother  Hugh.  Well,  he  has  ridden  his  ride  and 
made  his  mark  in  many  a  foray,  and  now  he  is  where 
Skelton  is.  Could  it  be  better  ? 

My  sister  Margaret  lives  now  at  Cardiff.  We  are 
all  that  remain  in  this  country.  I  have  a  brother  in 
Queensland.  We  must  try  and  pull  together  some- 
how :  but  how  hard  it  is ! 


To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

PLAS  ISA,  PENMAENMAWR, 
August  n,  1886. 

The  Carnedds  are  really  noble  mountains,  and 
I  have  been  tramping  along  the  whole  ridge  from 
Tal-y-fan  by  Moel  Fras  to  Carnedd  David. 

I  delicately  and  carefully  follow  this  ridge,  poise 
myself  upon  a  watershed  '  as  upon  a  horse,'  and  thus 
escape ;  very  few  people  go  up  there.  How  deli- 
cious the  mosses  are!  and  the  quartz  blocks!  and 
the  singing  streams !  Always  new  to  me !  the 
blessed  things  !  The  slope  Conway-wards  is  quite  full 
of  streams,  which,  high  up,  come  gurgling  through 
unfathomable  beds  of  moss :  the  whole  mountain  is 
one  sweet  golden  gurgle.  I  never  weary  of  them; 
they  are  never  stupid,  though  they  have  been  saying 
the  same  thing  since  *  the  dry  land  appeared.'  I  lie 
down,  first  by  one,  then  by  another,  and  I  am  gross 
enough  to  dip  a  bit  of  bread  in  their  lovely  green 
cups,  and  eat  the  sop — that  is  so  refreshing.  I  also, 
occasionally,  light  a  pipe,  and  burn  incense  to  these 
little  gods.  Often  I  only  stop  a  few  moments,  don't 
even  sit  down,  but  stoop  and  cower  me  over  the 


120  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1886 

clucking-  of  the  subterranean  innocent,  which  is  almost 
a  laugh,  a  chuckle. 

There  are  large  streams,  with  falls  all  the  way! 
Yes,  bless  ye !  and  a  flat  stone  right  under  the 
chiefest  fall.  And  what '  suld  hinder  '  but  that  a  man 
on  that  stone  sit  stark  naked  ?  What,  indeed,  but 
some  stony-eyed  idiotic  sheep !  So  there  I  sit,  and 
ant  a  god ;  peculiar  looking,  I  dare  say,  not  exactly 
Olympian — no  !  but,  hang  it !  what  would  you  have  ? 

I  intend  coming  to  Ramsey  on  Monday,  Aug.  3. 
...  On  Thursday,  Aug.  23,  I  shall  come  to  Braddan 
Churchyard  about  noon.  I  wish  we  could  meet 
there.  .  .  . 

To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

PENMAENMAWR, 

August  18,  1886. 

I  was  up  Tryfan  the  other  day,  that  fine  rock 
pyramid  over  Lake  Ogwyn,  and  got  on  capitally, 
though  it  is  all  regular  rock-climbing.  Certainly  on 
Tryfan  one  uses  one's  hands  and  knees  as  much  as 
one's  feet.  There  is,  I  think,  no  more  beautiful  crea- 
ture in  the  world  than  this  mountain.  It  will  hold  its 
own  with  anything  in  Switzerland ;  I  don't  mean  for 
difficulty,  but  for  beauty.  This  morning  I  examined 
the  tombstones  in  Dwgrfylchy  Churchyard,  and  am 
confirmed  in  my  suspicion,  which  is  gradually  becom- 
ing a  belief,  that  the  intense  Welsh  national  feeling, 
and  the  determination  to  keep  their  language,  are 
matters  of  the  nineteenth-century  Romance  movement. 
Certainly  in  the  eighteenth  I  don't  believe  the  Welsh 


,886]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  121 

desired  anything  more  than  to  be  thoroughly  English. 
I  want  to  know  the  history  of  these  Eisteddfods,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it ;  are  they  not  a  mere  modern  growth, 
or,  at  least,  a  monstrous  development  of  an  old  insti- 
tution ?  What  I  seem  to  smell  is  gas,  inflation,  the 
factitious.  So  I  think  of  writing  to  a  Liverpool 
paper  about  this.  It's  just  the  time  now,  and  I  may 
succeed  in  getting  up  a  nice  little  shindy — Taliessin, 
Eos  Morlais,  Mr.  Lewis  Morris,  of  Penbryn,  and 
Rev.  Ward  Beecher,  of  New  York,  to  the  rescue  ! 

There  is  the  almost  total  ignorance  of  English — 
capital,  in  its  way,  but  deucedly  inconvenient ;  and,  of 
course,  just  when  one  gets  that  silence  one  has  longed 
for,  there  arises  a  desperate  craving  for  talk,  for 
'  colloghing ' :  the  people  seem  intellectually  fit,  too. 
Those,  however,  who  speak  English,  speak  it  so 
exquisitely  that  you  carry  the  music  of  it  with  you  for 
hours  afterwards.  The  landlord  of  the  Gemmaes  Inn 
was  an  exception  :  I  must  tell  you  about  him  when  we 
meet. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

PLAS  ISA,  PENMAENMAWR, 

September  4,   1886. 

Gloria  periit  /  nor  has  there  been  much  gloria. 
But  I  have  been  over  in  the  Island.  .  . .  My  Peel 
expedition  was  a  happy  combination  of  things — 
sea  blue  as  heaven,  crisp  heather,  dwarf  gorse,  rock 
black,  buff,  purple,  barley  waving !  ...  Of  poems,  or 
for  poems,  protoplasm  enough,  I  dare  say,  but  not 
many  immediate  suggestions.  Yes,  just  one,  a  bride 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 


coming-  home  to  her  house  which  two  women  had 
been  left  to  clean  and  take  care  of. 

I  was  startled  rather  to  find  that  the  Island  is  one 
moving-  ant-hill  of  story.  I  believe  if  I  were  living- 
there  permanently,  I  should  get  whole  '  cart-loads '  of 
this  lore.  It  seemed  splendid  ;  the  very  ground  teems 
and  sparkles.  I  had  no  idea  that  such  a  number  of 
silkworms  were  there  spinning  their  quaint  cocoons 
night  and  day.  The  Island  seems,  indeed,  to  do 
hardly  anything  else.  The  brains  are  always  going, 
I  almost  heard  them  at  it :  I  didn't  sleep  much,  and 
all  through  the  night  these  shuttles  seemed  to  be 
flying  round  me — it  is  a  darling  race  !  In  Wales  the 
same,  no  doubt,  but  to  me  unknown  and  unknowable. 
The  Manx  life  (that  is  unrelated  to  England)  I  find  to 
be  deeper,  stronger,  and  richer  than  I  had  thought — 
driven  in  upon  itself,  and  curiously  coloured  by  that 
fact.  Hang  on  to  the  Britannic  mammae,  O  Dakyns, 
and  make  the  most  of  them !  But  I  must  go  my  own 
way,  and  my  mother  has  not  yet  forgotten  me. 
Kindest  love  to  you  all. 

TO  A.  M.  WORTHINGTON. 

CLIFTON, 

October  18,   1886. 

I  note  many  things  in  your  letter  with  great  de- 
light. Primarily  the  good  news  about  Mrs.  Worthing- 
ton:  I  hope  to  hear  even  still  better  before  long. 
Then  your  Ingleton  life — how  splendid !  What  a  bath 
to  plunge  into !  You  are  just  the  age  to  enjoy  that — 
old  enough  to  sanction  those  love  passages  more  or 


i886]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  123 

less  gracefully,  young  enough  to  sympathize  with 
them ;  young  enough  to — shall  I  say  dance  ?  old 
enough  to  surrender  yourself  to  a  kindly  violin, 
possibly — a  rubber?  I  know  Kirkby  Lonsdale,  but 
not  well,  nor  is  my  knowledge  of  recent  date. 

I  did  very  well  in  the  Isle  of  Man ;  had  two  good 
solitary  walks,  drank  deep  draughts  of — I  don't 
know  how  to  describe  it — that  social  brewage  which 
I  get  nowhere  else.  Very  likely  other  people  get  it 
in  their  own  old  habitats.  But  it  really  does  seem  to 
me  as  if  the  whole  Island  was  quivering  and  trembling 
all  over  with  stories — they  are  like  leaves  on  a  tree. 
The  people  are  always  telling  them  to  one  another, 
and  any  morning  or  evening  you  hear,  whether  you 
like  it  or  not,  innumerable  anecdotes,  sayings,  tragedies 
comedies — I  wonder  whether  they  lie  fearfully.  They 
are  a  marvellously  narrational  community.  And 
you've  not  been  there  a  day  before  all  this  closes 
round  you  with  a  quiet  familiarity  of '  use  and  custom ' 
which  is  most  fascinating.  Nothing  else  in  the  universe 
seems  of  any  consequence. 

And  warly  cares,  and  warly  men, 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O ! 

A  week  more  and  I  should  have  become  reabsorbed 
into  this  medium  past  recovery  and  past  recogni- 
tion. .  .  . 

I  have  been  musing  a  good  deal  over  my  '  Dooiney 
Molla1':  he  is  now  taking  shape,  and  looms  rather 
large.  I  believe  you  will  like  him,  and  his  fiery  little 
groom.  These  good  souls  do  well  to  visit  my  dreams: 

1  See  The  Manx  Witch,  p.  47  : 

'  dooiney-molla — man-praiser — the  friend  who  backs  the  suitor.' 


124  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1887 

they  are  such  a  comfort:  and  do  you  know  they 
positively  do  'go  on '  in  my  dreams.  Here  are  two 
lines  which  came  tripping  at  the  window  of  my 
slumbers  last  night — 

1.  'When  the  sun  was  jus'  puttin'  on  his  shoes' 

(morning), 

for  which  I  instantly  seemed  to  discover  a  parallel — 
to  wit — 

'  Sthreelin'  off  his  golden  stockings '  (the  sun 

again,  evening). 

2.  'Jus'  rags  tore  off  the   Divil's   ould  shirt'  (= 

witches'  charms,  or  spells). 
There  will  be  a  very  good  witch  in   this   poem, 

I  promise  you :    look  out !  l  are  sounding  me 

about  '  The  Doctor ' ;  .  .  .  they  would  try  to  make 
it  a  popular  book.  The  others  tried  to  make  it  a 
drawing-room  book,  with  the  result  that  the  few 
purchasers  thereof  hid  it  somewhere  behind  their 
bookshelves,  and  even  there  trembled  for  the  morals 
of  the  housemaids. 

To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

CLIFTON, 

October  9,  1887. 

I  wish  I  could  send  you  Bouvard  et  Pecuchet. 
I  have  just  one  number  of  it — isn't  it  tantalizing  ?  It 
began  in  the  Nouvelle  Revue  of  Dec.  15,  1880.  But 
it  is  now  published  in  the  series  of  Flaubert's  works, 
so  that  you  can  get  it  easily  enough.  It  is  merum 

1  Certain  publishers. 


i887]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  125 

sal,  the  style  much  terser  than  is  usual  with  Flaubert, 
downright  anatomy  indeed ;  but  that  yields  a  certain 
dryness  of  the  Amontillado  kind  which  is  almost 
unique.  Then  the  cynicism  is  so  very  special — an 
innocent,  lambent  brand  which,  again,  I  think  men 
ought  to  apprehend  with  relish. 

But  I  weary  you.  Poor  G.  Sand !  I  am  reading 
her  Amours  de  I' Age  d'Or.  Woe  is  me!  what 
awful  stuff!  an  echo,  and  a  sufficiently  rueful  one,  of 
the  Chute  d'un  Ange,  with  reference  (explicit  and 
stated;  to  that  sound  performance,  Reynaud's  Terre  et 
del. 

Why  do  you  say  that jy^r  star  is  on  the  decline) 
Do  you  mean  intellectually  ?  from  the  context  I  infer 
that  you  do.  But  how  is  that  ?  Let  me  try  a  remedy : 
or  rather  let  me  ask  you  to  try  a  remedy.  Fling 
open  your  soul !  ['  gush '  ?  No !] — throw  your  classics 
and  all  your  *  goods  and  chattels '  out  of  window,  give 
yourself  light  and  air  ['  ventilation  '  ?  Yes  !].  Live, 
and — well,  out  it  must  come — love !  For  if  you  and 
some  of  my  other  friends  think  you  are  going  to  do 
anything  in  the  world  without  making  your  bow  to 
the  lady  that  rules  over  Cyprus,  I  can  tell  you  you 
are  very  much  mistaken.  What  I  want  in  all  young 
men  is  more  insanity.  Therefore  I  would  much  rather 
hear  of  your  writing  poems  than  essays.  It  is  true 
that  at  your  time  of  life  the  poetic  mustum  might 
well  have  been  raked  off,  and  the  pure  and  limpid 
prose  be  beautifully  on  tap  and  ready  for  drinking. 
But  then,  have  you  passed  through  the  fever  at  all  ? 
That  is  the  point ;  all  the  better  if  it's  over ;  but  it 
must  be,  or  else  you  will  not  be. 


i26  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1887 

To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

CLIFTON, 

October  16,  1887. 

Pardon  my  saying  that  I  don't  think  you  will  get 
the  full  succus  out  of  the  tremendous  Bovary  marrow- 
bone, if  you  look  upon  it  as  a  satire. 

You  yourself  confess  that  it  has  knocked  you  out 
of  time,  and  you  are  going  to  read  it  again.  You 
can't  read  it  too  often.  I  will  ask  you,  when  you 
read  it  the  second  time,  to  think  of  it  as  a  tragedy. 
Try  that  method  at  any  rate;  I  feel  sure  it  is  the 
right  one.  Then  the  whole  terror  will  come  out. 
Madame  Bovary  is  an  exceptional  woman.  She  is 
not  like  Messalina,  but  fate-borne  like  Clytemnestra. 
Pity  her !  she  is  pathetic  !  believe  me  she  is,  and 
intended  to  be  so.  The  men  are  not  adequate ;  there 
is  the  central  poignancy  of  it  all — the  hobereau — is  he 
much  more  ?  the  commis — dreadful  creatures.  But 
Madame  Bovary  staggers  into  their  arms  drunk  with 
the  most  infernal  philtre,  her  eyes  blinded  with 
a  mist  as  fatal  as  that  which  befooled  Pasiphae. 

Get  rid  of  the  satire  notion,  and  approach  this 
awful  ruin  as  a  ruin— let  it  be  to  you  a  Baalbec, 
not  a  Lupanar. 

Woe !  woe !  woe !  I  can't  think  of  her  without 
tears.  God  forgive  me  if  I  do  now  and  then  laugh. 

But  Bo^ivard  et  Pec ...!!!  It  is  true  and  unmixed 
enjoyment  to  read  such  a  book.  How  innocent  it  is ! 
And  the  style!  Where  did  he  get  that  ringing 
simplicity?  How  I  should  like  to  meet  a  French- 
man like  that!  Bless  him!  The  honesty  of  the 
laughter !  isn't  it  perfect  ? 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  127 

By -the -bye,  I  have  found  my  old  numbers  of  the 
Revue,  and  am  enjoying  myself  more  than  I  can  say. 
It  would  be  most  delightful  to  read  it  with  you. 
It  is  pre-eminently  a  book  for  mutual  recognition : 
one  naturally  looks  for  another  face.  But  here  is 
no  one  except  Dakyns,  and  he  is  buried  innumerous 
fathoms  deep  under  a  translation  of  Xenophon ! 
God  help  him ! 

To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

CLIFTON, 

November  30,  1887. 

I  follow  you  on  the  Flaubert  trail,  panting !  In 
the  holidays  perhaps  I  may  catch  you  up.  You  have, 
of  course,  read  Salatnmbfi.  Do  you  read  de  Musset  ? 
For  style  (prose)  he  is  certainly  A  i.  It  would  be 
hard  to  beat  the  Confessions.  How  good  to  be  feed- 
ing on  this  fine  stuff!  Only  remember  there  is 
Italian !  By  all  the  pipes  smoked  in  W.'s  study,  by 
all  the  bristles  of  his  mighty  beard,  by  every  quill 
upon  the  fretful  N.,  by  a  thousand  tender  memories, 
I  implore  you  to  cultivate  this  divine  field ! 

TO  A.  M.  WORTHINGTON. 

CLIFTON, 

January  i,  1888. 

The  sorry  I  am !  I  really  believe  I  shall  not  get 
to  Town  after  all.  Diimm  et,  but  I  fear  a  case  of 
corrigere  est  nefas.  The  fact  is  I  have  smashed  my 
right  hand  at  fives,  and  am  under  care  of  the  surgeon ! 
Was  there  ever  such  an  old  fool !  I  manage  to  write 
at  the  rate  of  about  a  line  a  minute,  but  what  with 


128  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 

splint  and  iodine  it  is  a  sorry  business ;  and  so  I  enter 
'88 — quodfaustum  sit/  These  very  Latin  quotations 
reveal  the  state  I'm  in — a  touch  of  imbecility — eh  ? 

Mind  you  read  Hall  Caine's  Deemster;  it  is  little 
short  of  a  masterpiece.  Read  it,  and  tell  me  what 
you  think.  You  are  an  excellent  critic.  Did  you 
know  that?  Well,  you  are.  I  am  so  glad,  so  are 
we  all,  to  hear  what  you  say  about  Mrs.  Worthington. 
The  gods  are  good  after  all.  I  knew  you  would  like 
G.  Sand.  As  soon  as  you  have  finished,  please 
return,  as  I  shall  want  them  soon.  I  am  reading  (for 
I  can't  say  wrhich  time)  Hugo's  plays.  Cromwell, 
however,  I  had  never  read  before.  It  is  an  enormous 
congeries  of  circumstance.  You  know  how  I  admire 
old  Hugo,  but  I  am  not  blind  to  his  nonsense — e.  g. 
he  describes  Cromwell  as  cherishing  through  life  the 
bitterest  grudge  against  the  aristocracy,  because,  when 
at  Oxford  (sic),  he  had  been  ordered  off  the  turf  in 
the  quad, '  reserved  for  the  nobly-born  alone  ' — Crom- 
well retired  to  his  cellule  furious.  Shall  I  send  you 
the  passage — typical  French,  is  it  not  ?  The  brightest 
and  happiest  of  New  Years  to  you  both,  specially  to 
the  lambkin  of  '87.  So  say  we  all. 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

May  23,  1888 '. 

.  .  .  I  try  to  force  my  poor  nervous  spirit  to  take 
this  Limitation.  But  oh,  how  hard  !  I  try  to  live  and 

1  In  a  time  of  great  trouble.  Mrs.  Brown  died  in  July  of  this 
year.  What  this  loss  meant  to  him  may  be  learnt  from  these  four 
letters,  and  what  it  continued  to  be  from  that  of  Sept,  12, 1891,  p.  152. 
(Cf.  October  24,  1880.)— J.  R.  M. 


i888]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  129 

think  and  feel  just  de  die  in  diem.  I  try  to  fence  in 
for  each  day  a  sort  of  cofferdam  of  exclusion :  but 
the  past  comes  from  great  depths  which  are  uncon- 
trollable by  any  engineering-  of  mine,  and  the  future 
spreads  its  enormous  vacuum.  .  .  . 

One  thing-  emerges — my  absolute  belief  in  im- 
mortality. I  am  not  naturally  a  materialist ;  that  is 
a  plant  not  native  to  my  mind ;  but  scales  of 
materialism  have  sometimes  grown  upon  my  eyes. 
They  now  vanish  utterly,  and  I  am  dazzled  and  con- 
founded by  the  inevitable  presence,  the  close  connatural 
rebound  of  the  belief.  I  have  always  been  an  idealist, 
subject  to  these  dim  spots  of  material  feculence  that 
from  time  to  time  have  obscured  my  vision.  Now 
I  feel  my  body  to  be  nothing  but  an  integument,  and 
the  inveteracy  of  the  material  association  to  be  a  tie 
little  more  than  momentary,  and  quite  casual.  Death 
is  the  key  to  another  room,  and  it  is  the  very  next 
room.  I  wish  words  could  convey  to  you  how 
intensely  and  profoundly  I  feel  this. 

We  do  really  owe  much  to  the  medical  art,  if  it 
only  smooths  the  passage,  making-  it  painless.  For, 
amongst  other  things,  it  makes  death  so  beautiful. 


To  Miss  CANNAN. 

CLIFTON, 

Junezf),  1888. 

I  know  well  how  your  brother  would  have  sym- 
pathized with  me,  how  he  would  have  '  hung  on ' 
about  the  house.  He  had  much  of  that  fidelity, 
dog-like,  dumb  except  through  the  eyes.  The 

I  I 


1 3o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1888 

property  is  not  common,  nor  are  those  eyes  the 
heritage  of  every  man.  I  don't  think  I  must  write 
more. 

To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

ULLESWATER, 

July  10,  1888. 

This  day  week,  what  a  morning !  And  to-day  the 
dawn  is  beautiful,  but  ominous.  .  .  .  Yesterday  I  went 
over  to  Grasmere  by  the  Grisedale  Pass.  It  rained 
tremendously,  and  I  got  soaked.  I  then  walked  to 
Thirlspot,  lunching  at  Wythburn :  every  step  reminded 
me  of  last  year — the  place,  for  instance,  where  we 
picked  blackberries,  and,  above  all,  the  old  room  in 
the  Wythburn  Inn,  where  we  so  often  have  had  tea 
in  such  joyous  fashion.  ...  I  wanted  to  climb  Hel- 
vellyn  from  Thirlspot.  ...  It  was  dark,  but  clear; 
from  the  top,  Ulleswater  was  seen  in  brilliant  sun- 
shine ;  but  I  was  under  a  sort  of  big  umbrella  of 
cloud ;  no  rain,  however,  only  a  fierce  wind.  What 

could  I  think  of,  but ?     I  almost  felt  the  cairn 

could  breathe  some  answer  to  me.      There  was  not 

a  soul  near,  unless,  indeed,  was  herself  there : 

and  I  often  feel  as  if  she  was,  and  was  smiling  very 
sweetly,  not  without  a  faint  tinge  of  humour  at  all 
my  poor  weary  longings.  I  went  down  Striding 
Edge,  and  really,  when  it  is  blowing  hard,  as  it  was 
yesterday,  you  have  to  be  careful.  .  .  .  The  people 
here  are  very  good  and  attentive :  not  having  much 
to  do,  they  seem  to  enjoy  looking  after  me.  I  asked 
for  ink  in  my  bedroom,  and  behold  a  beautiful  little 
writing-table — wasn't  that  kind  ? 


i888]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  131 

Of  visitors,  very  few — not  gentlefolk,  but  well- 
meaning  souls  enough,  especially  two  lads  from 
Macclesfield,  who,  speaking  a  dialect  that  is  to  me 
nearly  unintelligible,  are  from  their  modesty,  simpli- 
city, and  total  absence  of  affectation,  quite  charming. 
'What's  yon  ? '  said  one  of  them  to  me,  producing  a  piece 
of  stag-horn  moss  which  he  had  carefully  treasured 
as  a  plant  of  a  rare  species.  The  honesty  of  the 
fellows !  and  they  are  bigger  and  stronger  looking 
than  most  of  our  Clifton  boys,  beside  being  somewhat 
older.  It  is  so  satisfactory  that  they  can  be  all  I  have 
described,  and  yet  not  a  bit  swell  \  well-dressed  they 
are,  and  well-mannered;  but  that  is  all!  A  large 
'  all '  though,  is  it  not  ? 

TO  A.   M.  WORTHINGTON. 

CLIFTON, 

July  29,  1888. 

Your  letter  is  one  of  the  few  that  have  gone  to  my 
very  heart.  Only  I  can't  conceive  what  you  mean 
by  attributing  to  yourself  a  lack  of  insight.  I  have 
heard  from  just  a  few  how  much  they  loved  my  wife. 
Those  who  have  said  this  are  united  to  me  by  an 
eternal  tie. 

You  were  at  Ulleswater :  I  knew  you  were  there  ; 
and,  having  previously  determined  to  go  there  for 
a  week,  I  did  not  suffer  this  knowledge  to  make  any 
change  in  my  plans.  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  yet 
not  alone.  I  should  have  gladly  found  you  there. 
I  got  there  on  Saturday,  July  7,  and  stayed  at  the 
Ulleswater  Hotel  till  Friday,  July  13.  You  must  have 
I  2 


i32  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1888 

left  Patterdale  before  I  came.  How  sweet  and  peaceful 
the  place  was !  I  climbed  Helvellyn ;  it  was  a  sad, 
but  a  delicious  time.  I  walked  by  the  Grisedale  Pass 
first  through  drenching1  rain  to  Grasmere,  thence  to 
Wythburn  and  Thirlspot.  Here  I  had  arranged  to 

go  up  Helvellyn  in  the  ipsa  vestigia ,  as  she 

climbed  last  year,  and  felt  for  the  first  time  that  her 
climbing  days  were  numbered.  It  was  indeed  a  via 
cruets ;  she  had  to  stop  almost  every  twenty  yards ; 
and  we  were  both  amazed  and  beyond  measure  per- 
plexed. I  was  now  alone  upon  Helvellyn,  except 
that  an  honest  shepherd  called  upon  his  dog. 
Well, you  can  guess  what  all  that  meant. 

My  children  are  so  good  that  I  am  always  thanking 
God  for  them.  .  .  .  O  God !  how  must  it  be  with  those 
who  are  left  childless  !  Thus  it  is  with  poor  B.,  from 
whom  I  had  a  mournful  line  the  other  day  through 
a  friend  of  his  and  mine. 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  your  babe  thrives ;  even 
that  little  thing,  you  say,  is  a  comfort  to  her  mother  ; 
how  will  it  be  then  when  the  deep  fountains  are 
broken  up  !  All  happiness  to  you  all. 


To  THE  REV.  E.  W.  KISSACK. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

August  7,  1888. 

We  sit  on  the  same  form  in  a  very  sad  school. 
God  help  us  to  bear  its  doubtless  wholesome  discipline! 
To  feel  one's  own  weakness  is  to  feel  His  strength. 
How  overwhelmingly,  though,  does  this  weakness 
rush  in  upon  one  at  times !  What  a  giving  way  of 


i888]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  133 

everything!  What  a  sinking  beneath  one  of  the 
whole  universe! 

But  then  it  is  we  feel  the  great  arms  holding  us  up 
with  the  strength  and  the  tenderness  of  eternity. 

My  dear  fellow  sufferer,  what  is  it  after  all  ?  why 
this  sinking  of  the  heart,  this  fainting,  sorrowing  of  the 
spirit  ?  There  is  no  separation  :  life  is  continuous. 

All  that  was  stable  and  good,  good  and  therefore 
stable,  in  our  union  with  the  loved  one,  is  unquestion- 
ably permanent,  will  endure  for  ever.  It  cannot  be 
otherwise.  Those  who  marry  without  love  need  not 
concern  us.  When  love  has  done  its  full  work,  has 
wrought  soul  into  soul  so  that  every  fibre  has  become 
part  of  the  common  life — qzds  separabti  ? 

Can  you  conceive  yourself  as  existing  at  all  without 
her)  No,  you  can't;  well,  then,  it  follows  that  you 
don't,  and  never  will.  The  process  of  blending  has 
been  too  complete  to  admit  of  separation.  This  is 
God's  blessing  on  perfect  unions.  O  Kissack,  this  is 
true !  But '  the  climbing  mother '  will  rise  unbidden, 
and  what  shall  we  do  ?  corrigere  est  nefas :  so  said 
poor  Horace;  there  is  a  clenching  of  the  teeth  on 
those  words.  Resignation  then,  O  Flaccus,  try  that ! 
and  indeed  he  does  with  his  levins  Jit  patientia. 
But  resignation  to  what  ?  Some  dark  fate  with  dumb 
lips  and  eyes  that  are  inscrutable  ?  No,  but  to  a  kind 
and  gracious  Father.  That  is  the  sum  of  all.  Dear, 
kind  friend,  as  surely  as  God  liveth,  we  shall  be  united 
again  to  the  precious  ones  in  a  union  that  is  already 
begun,  and  only  needs  the  removal  of  a  very  thin 
barrier  of  partition  to  become  the  rapture  of  an 
absolute  joy. 


i34          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1889 
To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

CLIFTON, 

June  9,  1889. 

I  am  now  reading  Anna  Karenina^  and  gradually 
wondering  more  and  more,  as  who  must  not,  when 
such  a  planet '  swims  within  his  ken '  ?  But  the  French 
translation  seems  poor.  I  must  learn  Russian  ;  and 
I  swear  I  will.  That's  what  Vaughan  did. 

Most  of  my  poor  leisure,  though,  is  just  now  given 
to  Tasso.  He  is  marvellously  brilliant :  though  not 
so  philosophical  as  Spenser,  he  is,  if  possible,  more 
poetical. 

I  still  stick  to  my  thesis,  that  Italian  is  the  great 
enlightener  and  clarifier  of  wits. 

TO  A.   M.   WORTHINGTON. 

ROYAL  CASTLE  HOTEL,  LYNTON, 

June  29,  1889. 

I  came  away  from  Commem.  row  yesterday.  This 
place  is  most  heavenly ;  I  knew  it  would  be.  The 
foxgloves  are  astounding,  whole  fields  embattled 
with  them,  densely,  instructa  acie.  And  the  size, 
the  real  hundred-barrelled  revolver  kind.  You  know 
Lynton?  If  you  know,  then,  shortly,  you  know 
something  about  Heaven.  I  bow  respectfully  to 
your  Miirrens,  and  your  Grindelwalds,  also,  though 
not  so  respectfully  to  your  Interlakens ;  but  we  too ! 
O  yes  !  by  Tarn !  yes.  E.g.  this  morning  at  7,  slipping 
a  sea-pillow  under  my  neck  in  Wrinkle  Cove  Bay — 
what?  lying  on  my  back  with  the  salt  water  sip- 
sopping,  or  fiz-foaming  under  my  occiput,  a  tranquil 


1889]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  135 

gaze  to  a  sky  as  blue  as  that  of  Schweiz,  with  one 
gull  somewhere  near  the  zenith  just  to  hold  up  my 
nib1 — ha!  have  I  touched  you?  yes!  yes!  yes!  by 
Tarn !  we  too.  .  .  . 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

RAMSEY, 

August  20,  1889. 

I  should  like  to  pay  all  reverence  to  that  oracle 
[Delphi],  and  to  all  the  other  oracles  ;  and  I  see  their 
political  importance.  But,  subjectively,  I  want  to 
know  what  the  Greek  religion  did  for  a  man  in  the 
exigencies  of  life  and  death.  A  Greek  death-bed, 
other  than  that  of  Socrates ;  the  equivalent,  if  any,  of 
the  clergyman,  the  pious  friend,  the  whole  scene  with 
its  lights  and  shades,  the  anxieties,  the  consolations, — 
that  is  the  one  direction  in  which  my  mind  wanders 
and  scrutinizes.  You  know  my  conviction  that  Greek 
life  was  not  so  far  removed  from  our  life,  that  all 
human  life  is  homogeneous,  and  that  the  Einkleidung 
is  of  much  the  same  texture,  however  the  colour  and 
other  accidents  may  differ.  A  dear,  good  old  Greek 
dying,  '  in  sure  and  certain  hope '  of  something ; 
I  believe  in  that  Greek  profoundly. 

To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

COBURG    HOUSE,    COBURG    ROAD,    NORTH    RAMSEY, 

August  23,   1889. 

My  cold  has  been  on  me  about  five  days.  But 
before  that,  I  bathed  and  climbed  and  was  happy 
enough.  Behold  the  wondrous  tale  !  .  .  . 

1  nib  or  neb  =  nose. 


136  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1889 

Braddan,  twice :  first,  with  the  children ;  second, 
with  my  friend  M.,  who  spent  four  days  with  us. 
The  second  visit  was  on  a  Sunday,  last  Sunday: 
church  (new)  and  churchyard  (old)  crammed,  like 
a  fair,  or  a  bazaar;  people  quiet,  on  the  whole,  but 
pressing  steadily  upwards  from  the  lower  gate,  with 
a  curious  expectant  look  on  their  faces,  as  if  about 
to  be  shown  some  monster— a  two-headed  parson,  or 
something  of  that  sort.  We  went  into  the  church, 
and  sat  at  a  long  service.  The  curate  preached  on 
Judas  Iscariot ;  the  vicar  conducted  a  service  in  the 
churchyard.  '  Judas  did  this,  Judas  thought  that ' ; 
then  from  the  churchyard,  in  stentorian  chorus, 
'  Crown  Him !  crown  Him !  crown  Him  !  crown  Him 
Lord  of  all.'  Thus,  you  see,  there  was  an  element  of 
the  comic ;  but  oh,  how  sad  it  was  to  me,  how  incom- 
prehensible !  Verily,  I  am  left  behind  ;  I  can't,  after 
all  these  years,  adjust  myself  to  the  dimensions  of  such 
a  change.  The  people  behaved  better  than  they  used 
to  do  in  our  time  ;  but  the  numbers !  the  systematiza- 
tion !  the  total  absence  of  the  native  population !  the 
show  atmosphere !  the  '  Walk  up,  gentlemen  '  style  of 
thing !  Over  all  this  Vanity  Fair  the  dear  old  bells 
rang  out  precisely  as  of  old.  Ah,  but  the  old  life  is 
gone,  is  '  hid  with  Christ  in  God.'  Wasn't  it  strange 
to  turn  up  towards  the  Strang,  rather  than  the 
Vicarage,  when  the  service  was  ended  ?  We  saw  old 
Drury's  grave  :  I  had  much  ado  to  come  by  it.  There 
were  none  but  '  Cottons '  in  the  cemetery.  I  thought 
I  had  got  hold  of  a  Manxman,  and  asked  him  '  where 
Mr.  Drury's  grave  was.'  He  answered  with  a  leer, 
and  the  accent  of — say  Ashton-under-Lyne  !  .  .  . 


1889]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  137 

Hills  above  the  Gob-y-volley  at  the  mouth  of 
Sulby  Glen,  twice;  perfection  of  gorse  hassocks, 
tufted  with  bell-heather,  also  of  ling  in  sheets, 
sprinkled  with  the  bell-heather — the  sea-rim  rounding 
all  with  glorious  blue— the  '  steamer '  going  round 
the  island  with  an  almost  impudent  familiarity  of 
approach,  like  '  a  Cotton  '  throwing  his  arms  round  the 
neck  of  a  pretty  Manx  country-girl—'  smookin,  too, 
the  dirt ' !  These  commons  westward  of  Sulby  Glen, 
between  it  and  Ballaugh  Glen,  are  most  delightful  ; 
but  they  contain  one  fraud,  and  that  is  the  Chibbyr- 
inch.  This  purports  to  be  a  sacred  well ;  and  I  dare 
say  it  has  been  one.  The  name  means  'the  well  in 
the  rock.'  My  friend  and  I  sought  it  with  the  keenest 
interest,  but  all  one  found  was  a  very  dirty  puddle, 
and  no  appearance  of  rock.  But  the  good  people 
over  here  swear  by  these  things.  '  Chibbyr-inch ! 
Chibbyr-inch !  my  gough,  is  it  Chibbyr-inch  ?  I've 
been  at  it  scores  of  times.  Wasn't  the  ould  people 
used  to  go  up  with  bottles  to  get  the  water  ?  Ter'ble 
good  for  sore  eyes,  they're  sayinV 

Quite  so,  but  all  the  same,  no  one  has  any  real  vital 
memory  or  knowledge ;  and  thus  it  is  with  all  Manx 
assertions :  the  spirit  of  exaggeration,  of  gasconade, 
of  total  irresponsibility,  of  saying  anything  that  it 
may  be  convenient  or  flattering  to  themselves  or 
others  to  say.  .  .  .  And  how  the  feeling  haunts  me  that 
I  belong  to  this  race !  that  the  same  spirit,  chastened 
a  little,  perhaps,  is  in  me ;  that  the  very  words  I  have 
just  written  show  symptoms  of  this  failing,  a  failing 
which  may  in  the  possession  of  a  great  master  become 
a  positive  source  of  treasure,  but  as  possessed  and 


138          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1889 

used  is  wholly  an  impediment !  The  whole  island 
seems  strewn  with  the  rubbish  of  slatternly  inaccuracies 
and  over-statements  ;  it  would  be  quite  refreshing  to 
take  a  walk  in  the  narrowest  and  least  decorated  lane 
of  simple  truth.  I  will  read  a  few  propositions  of 
Euclid  every  morning-. 

Great  excursion  to  the  Chasms :  slept  at  Port 
St.  Mary.  Took  boat  to  the  cave  at  Sugar-loaf, 
went  through  it  twice,  heard  the  deep  ringing  of 
the  sea-hammers.  You  know  it,  the  most  awful 
sound  in  nature.  I  went  up  to  Rushen  Church  next 
morning;  it  rained,  and  was  dismal;  but  I  saw  the 
graves  of  the  Corrins. 

Yesterday  there  was  a  great  picnic  at  the  White 
Strand.  Of  course  I  was  unable  to  go,  and  stayed  at 
home  to  nurse  my  ear,  and  to  finish  reading  The 
Mill  on  the  Floss,  which  I  did  with  many  tears.  Who 
can  read  that  last  scene  otherwise  ? 


To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

LAKE  VIEW, 

Septembers,  1889. 

To  you  I  inscribe  this  scrawl  written  with  a  pen 
that  must  have  dropped  from  the  wing  of  Beelzebub 
himself. 

Yesterday  I  went  across  the  lake  to  Water-lily 
Bay.  The  gloomy  one  smiled  a  ruinous  smile,  and 
'  dooted  what  mak  o'  a  day  it  was  gauin  to  be.'  How- 
ever, Water-lily  Bay  was  more  delicious  than  I  can 
tell.  It  is  so  marvellous  with  quiet  morning  light 
upon  it.  The  water-lilies  have  all  but  disappeared  : 


1889]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  139 

some  day  they  will  be  legendary,  and  people  will 
inquire  into  the  derivation  of  the  name.  I  climbed 
Causey ;  plenty  of  blaeberries  at  the  top,  especially 
upon  his  blessed  old  nose :  I  had  a  great  feed.  The 
whole  country  was  dim  but  visible ;  the  heat  intense. 
And  so  to  Sale  and  Eel  Crags  and  Grasmoor.  Here 
I  got  into  mist.  Then  back  to  the  stream  that '  gaes 
doon '  between  Grasmoor  and  Eel  Crags,  a  bonny 
beck,  if  there  be  a  bonny.  I  bathed  in  it ;  such 
a  bath,  a  little  fall  swishing  under  me  and  over  me 
and  all  about  me,  and  seething  and  bubbling  up  like 
soda-water. 

After  tea  (such  a  glorious  apple- far  if — think  of  that, 
if  you  please ;  none  of  your  '  obvious  vulgar '  plums, 
but  apples  rich  and  melting  and  shrined  in  the  crust 
of  Todd  ;  cream  too,  and  delights  manifold !)  took 
a  '  bawt '  and  rowed  myself  to  Water-lily  Bay ;  nearly 
dark ;  let  myself  drift  out  from  the  bay,  while  I  lay 
in  the  stern,  and  draggled  my  right  foot  through  the 
all  but  warm  water.  Moon  very  sulky,  and  hardly 
perceptible. 

To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

CLIFTON, 

November  21,  1889. 

I  accept  your  offer  eagerly.  You  will  receive  my 
Rabelais  (first  volume,  you  don't  want  the  second  ?) 
by  next  post.  Whereupon  duly  forward  to  me  the 
Flauberts  :  it  will  indeed  be  a  splendid  exchange. 
I  take  it  this  portrait  must  be  the  authentic  one :  it  is 
the  good  old  critical  rule  to  prefer  the  less  obvious 
lectio.  It  is  disgustingly  easy  to  imagine  how  that 


140  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1890 

Jack-Pudding  came  to  be  accepted  as  Rabelais.  So 
let  us  lean  dans  ce  sens.  A  handsome  face,  if  ever 
there  was  one.  I  still  lend  books  :  my  Sand  is  always 
in  great  request.  I  can't  help  laughing  when  ladies 
come  into  my  study,  and  stare  with  all  their  eyes,  and 
would  like  to  take  this,  and  would  like  to  take  that 
romance  of  the  soft-hearted  old  virago.  They  remind 
one  of  a  situation  in  The  Country  Wife,  which 
I  doubt  not  you  will  recall. 

Your  letters  are  ever  welcome ;  they  serve  to 
remind  me  that  there  is  still  such  a  thing  as  literature. 

The  Faust  has  engaged  me  a  good  deal.  Last 
holidays  I  was  to  meet  an  old  Goethean  friend  of 
mine;  so  went  over  the  first  part  several  times  with 
much  care.  Conceive  my  disgust  when  I  found  my 
friend  absolutely  declined  noticing  the  first  part, 
being  completely  absorbed  in  the  second. 

Byron  turns  up  again  on  my  table.  What  a  thing 
that  Vision  of  Judgment  is !  The  power  is  stupen- 
dous. For  the  Corsair,  Giaour,  &c.,  I  am  sorry  to 
find  them  so  hard  to  construe !  They  really  are. 
Now  send  round  '  thim '  Flauberts ! 


To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

FALCON'S  NEST,  PORT  ERIN, 

April  16  (No  year  :   ?  1890). 

Grey  and  grim,  for  the  most  part,  is  our  '  little 
eilan' ' ;  but  just  at  this  moment  I  can  look  out  upon 
a  bright  blue  sea.  The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  land, 


1890]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  141 

the  bay  therefore  quite  smooth,  except  for  the 
blessed  little  wrinkles  that  get  stronger  and  darker 
to  about  the  middle  distance,  when  the  real  state  of 
affairs  is  manifested  in  the  shape  of  breakers  and 
general  commotion.  ...  I  want  to  dream,  also  occa- 
sionally to  dine.  I  hope  to  get  some  food,  moreover, 
that's  not  of  this  Manx  earth,  or  any  other  earth,  some 
fruit  that  does  not  grow  in  these  cabbage  gardens. 
But,  if  this  is  to  be,  I  must  live  a  suspended  life,  and 
not  know  what  people  are  talking  about.  The  '  un- 
known tongues '  of  gulls  and  larks  will  blend  very 
well  with  my  mood ;  in  fact,  help  materially  to  fill  up 
the  wind-bag  of  temporary  torpor.  At  Braddan  the 
other  day  I  heard  rooks  and  robins ;  the  row  made 
by  the  former  was  quite  dreadful.  I  used  to  like  it, 
and  even  expect  it  with  pleasure,  and  purposely  visit 
Braddan  when  *  the  row '  was  on,  in  spring-time. 
However,  certain  robins,  evidently  perceiving  that 
I  was  troubled,  came  and  got  up  quite  a  little  chorus, 
perched  on  the  trees  just  over  the  grave.  I  never 
before  heard  such  enthusiastic  robins.  Their  keen 
little  pipes  cut  right  through  the  sawdust  brawling  of 
the  rooks,  scattered  it  like  '  the  rear  of  darkness,' 
made  it  inaudible.  And  they  were  such  '  boul '  little 
beggars,  so  confident  and  confidential.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
about  Oatlands.  Some  people  once  lived  there  whom 
D.,  or  perhaps  D.  and  you,  once  went  to  stay  with. 
.  .  .  What  I  was  musing  as  I  passed  the  place  was  the 
relief,  escape,  or  what  you  will,  that  D.  particularly 
must  have  felt  in  getting  away  there  for  a  while,  the 
imping  of  young  wings,  the  expansion,  and  the 
further  outlook,  the  introduction  to  ways  and  ideas 


142  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1890 

unfamiliar,  the  disappointment  perhaps,  and  the 
falling  back  on  Braddan  manners  and  prejudices  and 
homely  limitations.  For,  in  those  days,  if  some  one 
gave  us  a  glimpse  of  what  was  called  the  world,  we 
were  apt  to  say  to  ourselves,  '  Is  this  all  ? '  and  revert 
to  our  old  Vicarage  views,  the  impossibilities  and  the 
marvels,  Waverley  and  the  poets,  and  all  the  great 
dreamers  of  dreams,  '  Old  John '  in  fact.  How  well 
I  remember  my  efforts  (but  why  say  effort  ?)  to  con- 
vert Braddan  Churchyard  into  that  of  Stoke  Pogis, 
and  to  think  of  it  as  the  fitting  scene  of  Gray's  Elegy  / 
Yet,  poor  Gray !  what  would  he  have  made  of  it  ? 
A  good  deal,  I  dare  say,  for  did  he  not  understand 
and  love  Keswick  ? 

Yesterday,  at  the  Kerroo-Kiel,  I  met  a  delightfully 
bright  and  witty  man.  He  soon  got  to  know  who 
I  was,  and  we  had  the  most  glorious  talk.  The  mis- 
chief of  it  is  that  these  worthies  are  only  too  glad  to 
get  into  a  coosh  with  you,  and  they  would  talk  all 
day,  leaving  a  spade,  or  forsaking  plough  and  horses 
to  lean  over  a  hedge,  leaning  on  something  at  any 
rate,  and  talking  away.  Their  talk  is  bright,  aimless 
rambling,  not  without  dives  into  the  depths,  and  pokes 
into  your  personality,  above  all,  engouement  the  most 
absolute,  and  desire  of  inter-communication  the  most 
insatiable.  And  you  are  up  on  the  mountain -side  at 
the  furthest  limit  of  plough  range,  and  the  wind 
whistles  just  the  right  sort  of  accompaniment  to  such 
talk.  I  think  I  must  have  a  sail  here.  But,  do  you 
know  ?  the  Manx  seamen  and  fishermen  tend  to  become 
self- conscious  :  the  '  strangers  '  are  spoiling  them. 
Not  so  the  fanner :  of  course  no  one  can  make  him 


1890]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  143 

understand  that  the  visitors  do  him  any  good  by 
raising  the  prices  of  his  produce,  so  he  cares  very  little 
about  them,  and  in  no  way  guides  himself  according 
to  them  or  their  fashions.  So  far  as  the  outer  world 
comes  to  him,  it  is  by  the  channel  of  the  newspapers. 
He  has  all  the  boundless  curiosity,  the  thirst  for  know- 
ledge miscellaneous,  pulpy,  and  piquant,  which  charac- 
terize those  that  dwell  remote.  When  he  gets  hold 
of  you,  he  flies  at  you,  hugs  you,  gets  every  blessed 
thing  he  can  out  of  you.  '  Favourable  specimens,' 
you  will  say.  That  is  true :  but  as  regards  the  inde- 
pendence and  primitive  state  of  mind,  what  I  say 
applies  to  almost  all.  You  see  you  must  get  down 
beneath  the  gentleman  or  would-be  gentleman-farmer, 
down  to  the  man  who  never  conceived  the  idea  of 
ruffling  it  with  gentlefolk.  Also,  you  must  not  go 
down  to  the  mere  labourer.  But  they  are  desperate 
gossips,  gossips  not  so  much  in  matters  local  and  in- 
sular, as  in  matters  universal.  The  gossiping  tone 
does  proceed  into  the  universal,  does  it  not  ?  The 
hilarity  with  which  they  will  range  the  far  horizons  of 
thought  is  so  childlike  (you  know  how  children  are 
about  that)  ;  a  chatter  that  sparkles  on  the  surface 
like  their  own  divers,  and  then,  with  an  '  Aw  bless 
me  sowl,'  or  '  Aye,  man,  aye,'  down  into  the  deepest 
soundings  of  the  spirit.  I  think  it  is  this  quality  of 
theirs  that  the  Methodists  get  hold  of,  and  '  lead  them 
captive  at  their  will.'  Light,  happy,  irresponsible 
creatures  of  the  element !  In  a  poem  of  mine  which 
I  complain  has  not  been  appreciated  as  it  ought  to 
be  (!  !),  '  Kitty  of  the  Skerragh  Vane,'  I  have  tried  to 
give  some  idea  of  them.  '  Nicky'  is  the  man's  name. 


144  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1890 

Have  you  read  it  ?  His  delight  in  foregathering  with 
1  strangers '  is  the  motif.  ...  I  hope  you  get  out. 
From  Port  lern  to  Cardiff  'is  a  far  cry  to  Loch 
Awe ' !  My  gough !  yandhar  sea  !  I  must  be  out 
upon  it. 


To  J.  E.  PEARSON. 

FALCON'S  NEST,  PORT  ERIN,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 

April  23,  1890. 

Nay,  by  all  the  gods  you  shall  not  carry  it  off  thus ! 
My  Amphi trite  with  the  sweet  young  face  and  laugh- 
ing eyes,  and  your  ditch-bred  Bridgwater  drab !  .  .  . 
And  my  darling  outside  there,  that  tells  me  all,  gives 
me  all,  and  is  in  such  a  mood  now,  a  creature  of 
moods,  I  will  admit;  but  you  must  know  how  to 
meet  her,  and  her  whispers !  Pearson,  her  whispers ! 
Go  to! 

But  getting  rid  of  salt  water,  and  turning  inland — 
for  example,  at  Holford,  is  it  ?  Ah,  at  Holford !  Well, 
that  is  a  dear  little  place.  To  go  up  on  to  the  hills 
from  there  by  a  long  row  of  aged  beech-trees — very 
good.  You  don't  come  upon  the  beech-trees  at  once  : 
they  lie  just  above  Alfoxden — really  delightful  old 
things.  The  Alfoxden  stream  is,  I  think,  poor,  and 
it  seems  ashamed  of  itself,  lurking  in  secret  places. 
The  people  all  about  I  like  very  much.  I  wonder 
what  you  think.  Have  you  been  to  Kilve  Church, 
and  have  you  yet  solved  the  question  of  the  weather- 
cock ?  The  question  is  simply  categorical — zs  there 
a  weather-cock  ? 

You  have  one  blessing — you  are  alone:  at  least, 


1890]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  145 

I  think  I  can  infer  that.  Now  I  cannot  be  that. 
I  have  been  called  upon  by  the  local  clergy !  Match 
me  that,  if  you  please! 

A  story  and  an  idyll,  both  of  the  slenderest  kind. 
I  was  told  them  by  Christian,  one  of  my  crew,  the 
other  day. 

(i)  Coming  home  from  Shetland;  twenty  boats 
sheltering  somewhere  about  Raasay(i},  I  think: 
Inver  the  place  is  called— in  the  Hebrides,  is  it  ?  or 
on  the  coast  of  Sutherland  (Dieu  le  sait\  A  great 
castle  with  a  flag :  a  great  lady  invites  all  the  Manx- 
men to  dinner  (I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Christian  ; 
Invaw,  he  said,  not  Inver,  and  dinnaw).  Fancy — 
120  men  and  boys!  She  had  been  in  the  Isle  of 
Man,  and  the  people  was  very  kind  to  her  (haw). 
Hence  the  invitation.  A  ter  ble  grand  place,  and 
the  three-legs-of-Man  cut  in  a  stone  over  the  door 
(dooaw).  They  accepted :  the  day  came,  the  '  dinnaw ' 
was  all  ready  ;  but  not  a  man  went. 

They  were  that  shy  (shoy).  Woodward,  my 
sailing-master,  chimes  in — '  An'  that's  the  wuss  of  the 
Manx !  shoy,  that's  it,  aw  shoy  tremenjis  !  they  can't 
help  it,  no ! '  '  Dinnaw '  waits,  the  pipers  are  im- 
patient, but  no  Manxmen.  'Was  it  your  clothes?' 
said  I.  '  Well,  I  can't  azackly  say ;  no,  hardly  that 
either  (ithaw) :  just  shoy!  Great  lady  disappointed, 
but  excellent  and  ingenious,  invites  them  to  tea; 
accepted ;  time  comes,  '  not  a  sowl  went,  just  one 
looking  at  the  other  (othaw).'  Wind  changes,  up 
anchor,  and  away  to  the  south.  Two  boats  remain, 
and  at  long  last  the  'great  lady'  triumphs.  These 
men  went  to  tea  at  the  castle.  The  area  of  mutual 


146  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1890 

criticism  being  reduced  to  such  dimensions,  they 
plucked  up  courage  and  went,  and  '  enjoyed  theer- 
selves  uncommon  !  aw  a  ter'ble  gran  lady.'  The  area 
&c.  explanation  was  mine  :  they  accepted  it.  Heaven 
knows  in  what  Anglo -Keltic  form  I  put  it!  You 
must '  let  imagination  muse '  the  delicacy  of  such  an 
achievement — the  delicacy,  and  the  daring,  let  me 
say:— 

O  wasn't  she  a  ladie,  a  ladie,  a  ladie, 

O  wasn't  she  a  ladie,  that  dame  of  Inver  Bay  ? 

I  wish  I  knew  who  she  was.  I  think  I  would  write 
to  her,  and  thank  her,  and  apologize  to  her  for  my 
countrymen.  She  might  have  been  the  Duchess  of 
Sutherland,  whose  mother,  Mrs.  Mackenzie,  quartered 
the  Manx  arms  on  her  shield ;  but  then  (almost  all) 
the  great  Highland  families  do  that. 

(2)  The  idyll— it  is  hardly  that,  though.  The 
Chickens  Light-house  lies  off  the  island  called  the 
Calf  of  Man,  due  SW.  From  the  shore  of  the  Calf 
a  long  slope  runs  up  to  the  crest  of  the  island  :  this 
slope  exactly  faces  the  Chickens.  Near  the  top  of 
the  slope,  nestling  under  the  crags  of  the  crest,  are 
the  cottages  inhabited  by  the  families  of  the  light- 
keepers,  their  doors  opening  out  right  toward  the 
Chickens  far  down  below  them. 

Now  the  light- keepers  are  absolutely  separated 
from  their  families  for  three  months  at  a  time.  But — 
and  here  is  the  point — these  good  fellows  have  of 
course  a  powerful  telescope,  and  they  solace  them- 
selves with  looking  through  it  at  their  children 
playing  in  front  of  the  cottage  doors.  Isn't  that 
beautiful?  Ah,  human  hearts!  Fancy  on  Sundays 


i89o] 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 


147 


(Sabbath  —  they  are  Scotchmen),  how  proud  the 
mothers  must  be  to  hae  the  bairns  draw  for  the  guid- 
man  to  see  them  through  the  spying- glass  /  '  Gie 
little  Kate  her  button  gown,  and  Jock  his  Sunday 
coat ' — isn't  that  it  ?  Though  there's  no  baillie's  wife 
to  tell  that  '  Colin's  in  the  toon ' ;  and  indeed  he  is 
not,  he  is  exiled  out  on  the  Chickens. 


LIGHTHOUSE. 

There  now,  have  I  moved  you  at  all  ?  Such  things 
one  picks  up  here,  and,  with  a  little  more  trustfulness 
and  godly  sincerity,  and  man-to-manness,  a  little  more 
reach  and  wholesome  native  o/ae£i?,  a  little  more  love, 
in  short,  how  much  more  one  might  pick  up !  And 
is  not  pick  up  a  most  damnable  phrase  ?  and  ought 
not  the  appetite  for  these  things  and  the  perception 
of  them  to  be  normal,  and  is  not  normal  a  damnable 
phrase,  for  which  it  were  well  to  substitute  '  our  daily 
bread '  ?  And  so  committing  you  both  to  Him  who 
K  2 


148  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1891 

gives  that  bread  to  all  who  believe  in  Him  faithfully, 
I  remain,  &c. 

PS.— I  fear  there  is  a  tone  of  truculence  in  this 
letter.  I  did  not  mean  it.  You  have  a  sweet  covert 
there.  Bless  you  in  your  Quantock  rambles ! 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

CLIFTON, 

May  8,  1891. 

The  Isle  was  very  good.  Of  primroses  not  a  super- 
abundance, of  gorse  great  store,  though  meditating 
greater :  of  solitudey~0ww/.  The  glens  were  delicious, 
caught  just  in  the  act — the  lovely  things !  I  went  to 
Renass,  Ballaglass,  and  twice  to  Glen  Aldhyn. 

It  was  hard  to  keep  out  of  the  tubs.  By-the-bye, 
you  have  never  been  up  Glen  Aldhyn :  and,  indeed, 
I  have  not  known  it  long  thoroughly.  Glen  May  too 
I  visited,  and,  of  course,  Sulby  Glen.  Dora  is  there 
still,  enchanted,  spell-bound.  She  is  like  me,  would 
never  care  to  come  away:  why  should  we?  The 
world  does  not  want  us :  why  should  we  want  the 
world  ?  But,  indeed,  I  do  not,  nor  ever  did. 

Arridet  tibi  Coryletum  )  1  I  think  it  does,  and 
that  you  must  be  very  happy. 

1  Hazlemere,  as  T.  E.  B.  spelt  it— H.  G.  D. 


1891]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  149 

To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

CLIFTON, 

June  as,  1891. 

I  write  just  a  line  to  tell  you  that  we  have  heard 
of  the  death  of  your  uncle.  The  dear  gallant  old 
fellow  has  gone.  ...  He  was  a  noble,  brave,  and 
absolutely  honest  man.  I  have  not  seen  him  now  for 
nearly  forty  years.  .  .  .  When  he  left  England  I  was 
a  youngster  at  Oxford,  and  had  only  just  become 
engaged.  So  all  things  pass,  and  the  world  goes  on. 
Aunt  M.  has  now  only  one  brother.  Of  the  six  boys 
that  once  grew  up  in  old  Braddan  Vicarage  I  am  the 
only  one  remaining.  Ah!  it  does  feel  lonely.  But 
you  are  with  me  still,  and  I  am  not  unhappy.  Thank 
God  for  all ! 


To  J.  E.  PEARSON. 

KESWICK, 

September  12,  1891. 

When  your  letter  came,  I  was  in  the  Isle  of  Man, 
and  my  last  two  days  were  so  quiet  that  I  wanted 
never  to  leave  the  place  again.  I  wonder  whether 
Wilson  would  give  me  something  just  to  clear  out  at 
once.  Then  would  I  make  haste  and  flee  ! 

Yet  this  too  is  lovely,  this  lake  with  its  divine 
monotony,  these  sphynxes  of  mountains  with  their 
ridiculous  questioning  faces.  And  one  day  on  Scawfell 
Pike  was  absolutely  perfect,  the  kind  of  day  you  get 
here  between  storms,  clear  as  crystal,  sharp  and 
tremulous  with  the  rapture  of  the  rain.  .  .  .  And  now 


1 5o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1891 

with  the  fine  weather  crammed  into  one  short  week, 
we  are  all  hurry-scurry.  We  hardly  know  what  we 
would  be  at.  Like  the  typical  Englishman,  we  stand 
musing  what  we  shall  wear,  and — 

Sometimes  we  would  have  this, 

Sometimes  we  would  have  that, 

And  sometimes  we  would  wear, 

We  cannot  tell  what. 

So  let  us  be  off.  The  trap  is  at  the  door.  And 
to-day  it  is  to  be  Stake  Pass,  Mickleden,  Rossett 
Gill,  Angle  Tarn,  Grain's  Gill,  and  Seathwaite.  Qu 'en 
pensez-vous  ?  And  the  wretched  Dakyns,  who  won't 
come,  carit,  quotha,  because  of  VISITORS.  Alas  for 
Dakyns !  what  will  he  do  in  the  end  thereof? 

Sunday.  We  went,  we  saw,  we  conquered.  Rossett 
Gill  was  hot.  Fancy  the  liquid  silver  near  the  top  ! 
How  we  did  trinken — trinken — trinken  !  Our  tea  at 
Seathwaite  was  untellable.  This  is  desperately  sensual, 
but  what  would  you  have  ?  The  tubs  in  Grain's  Gill : 
would  you  have  those  ?  I  swear  to  you  that  no  Roman 
bath  ever  approached  them  even  in  mechanical  per- 
fection. We  swore  deeply  (girls  and  all)  that  we 
would  come  up  here  on  Tuesday  and  bathe.  Hugh 
and  I  would  constitute  ourselves  sentries.  Besides, 
the  place  is  a  very  solitary  one,  and  the  tripper  is 
nearly  extinct  for  this  season. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Pearson  I  will  now 
close  this  letter;  the  last  of  its  kind  which  I  shall 
probably  write  this  side  Jordan.  It  is  good  that  we 
should  have  written  to  each  other — '  very  meet,  right, 
and  our  bounden  duty,'  in  a  very  true  sense,  '  sacra- 
mental.' 


1891]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  151 

TO  A.   M.  WORTHINGTON. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

September  12,  1891. 

I  have  been  to  the  Isle  of  Man  with  Hall  Caine. 
Two  days,  the  only  fine  ones,  were  very  great.  One 
of  them  was  a  Sunday :  A.M.  up  Glen  Aldhyn :  P.M. 
to  Kirk  Maughold  Church.  A.M.  was  natural ;  P.M., 
shall  I  say,  spiritual  ?  Well,  social,  of  the  very  highest 
order.  The  vicar  is  an  old  friend,  the  vicar's  wife 
perhaps  my  very  oldest  friend.  We  went  to  the 
evening  service,  and  I  read  the  prayers.  At  the 
altar-place  knelt  ...  it  was  the  church  where  we 
were  married. 

Charming  with  all  the  consummate  charm  of  well- 
nigh  eighty  years  worn  with  exquisite  grace  heightened 
by  every  circumstance  of  refinement  and  the  halo  of 
a  beauty  not  yet  extinct,  the  subtlety  of  an  intellect 
still  active  in  many  directions — such  is  Mrs.  White, 
more  familiar  to  me  by  her  maiden  name.  The  mere 
physical  conditions  were  little  short  of  astounding. 
A  line  drawn  from  the  altar  of  the  church  straight 
down  the  aisle  and  projected  westward  would  have 
lighted  on  the  other  altar,  that  of  Barrule,  black, 
pyramidal.  Venus  was  rising  over  the  cairn  on  the 
top  of  Maughold  Head.  The  dear  old  vicar  crooned 
away  his  most  admirable  sermon,  of  which  I  heard 
not  a  word,  but  was  conscious  as  of  a  lullaby.  And  so 
they  go  on,  these  most  blessed  of  the  blest.  Time 
touches  them  lightly;  they  are  so  precious  that  I 


152  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1891 

suppose  they  will  at  last  not  die,  but  fade  away  into 
balsams  like  Mizraim,  sweet  mummy  powders  of  finest 
fragrance. 

My  girls  are  all  well  and  happy.  Dora  is  really 
getting  a  great  girl,  though  I  say  it.  And  much  of 
all  this  happiness  is  reflected  upon  me.  But,  my 
dear  Worthington,  there  is  a  happiness,  a  kind  of 
happiness,  a  kind  (do  I  claim  too  much  for  it  ?  just 
a  kind]  which  I  shall  never  know  again— ah  no !  so 
help  me  God ! 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

LAKE  VIEW,  KESWICK, 

September  la,  1891. 

Hall  Caine  was  with  me  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  I  took 
him  up  to  Kirk  Maughold  on  Sunday  evening.  The 
whole  thing  was  unparalleled.  I  read  the  service.  My 
dear  old  friend  the  vicar  preached.  His  voice  was 
sweet  and  soothing.  I  don't  know  what  he  said, 
probably  it  was  his  very  best.  I  sat  within  the  rails 
and  saw  nothing  but  one  precious  thing.  .  .  .  Dear  old 
friend,  preach  away,  and  let  it  be  your  best,  if  you 
think  it  should  be  so,  but  I  must  hear  words  far 
different,  and  seek  the  higher  absorption.  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  more  of  this  wonderful  day. 

On  Monday  we  had  to  leave  for  Whitehaven  at  1 1. 
So  we  breakfasted  at  6,  and  had  a  car  to  Ballaglass. 
This  too  was  a  sacrament,  but  more  open.  I  enclose 
two  '  lil  pomes '  from  '  In  the  Coach.' 


i89a]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  153 

TO  A.  M.  WORTHINGTON. 

CLIFTON, 

April  5,  1892. 

<I>iArar6 

ororoi,  OTOTOI,  droroi,  likewise  £,  e ,  I ! 

Then  you  don't  know  that  I  have  been  nearly 
'  kilt  V  ProxitmiS  vidi,  I  can  assure  you  :  and  even 
now  my  case  is  dismal.  Walk  on  Dartmoor!  This 
morning  I  crawled  to  the  sea-walls  and  back,  and 
made  my  poor  boast  of  the  achievement.  Ah, 
Worthington  honey !  Worthington  avick !  I  believe 
it  is  all  up  with  me.  I  may  go  for  a  few  years  more 
yet,  but  the  mainspring  has  been  rudely  shaken,  and 
I  shall  be  a  simulacrum,  an  approximation  to  the 
manes  and  lemures  of  fable. 

And  still  I  would  fain  meet  you  again,  and  *  Coll ' 

too,  and  try  to  put  in  my  sword  where  such  men  foin 
and  fence. 

How  infinite  a  walk  on  Dartmoor  seems !  not  so 
much  in  physical  space  as  moral.  Suppose  I  did  walk 
all  over  Dartmoor  now,  could  it  be  the  Dartmoor 
of  old !  a  dream  of  heaven  and  all  that  is  elastic  and 
tense  and  free — no,  no !  just  mile-stones  and  dragging 
limbs,  and  eyes  vainly  seeking  the  old  light. 

Well,  and  the  upshot  is  that  I  am  seeking  it 
to-morrow,  not  vainly,  let  us  hope,  with  Dakyns. 
I  was  at  Weston  a  fortnight,  and  it  did  me  very  little 
good.  So  now  for  Haslemere,  possibly  further,  if 
I  get  on  a  bit,  and  can  persuade  Dakyns  to  cross  the 
Channel.  I  have  thought  too  of  a  trip  to  Naples  by 

1  He  had  been  seriously  ill  at  the  end  of  1891,  and  took  long  to 
recover  his  strength. 


i54  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i89a 

an  Orient  steamer.  They  call  at  Plymouth,  don't 
they  ?  If  I  make  Plymouth  my  port  of  embarkation, 
will  you  take  me  in  for  a  night  and  a  day  ?  .  .  .  . 

And  now  you  behold  the  situation.  Dear,  kind 
friend,  be  sure  of  my  constant  affection. 

To  MRS.  WILLIAMSON. 

16  WINDSOR  VILLAS,  NORTH  RAMSEY, 

May  13,   1892. 

I  wrote  to  you  last  from  Weston,  but  the  place  did 
me  little  good,  so  I  left  it,  and  two  days  afterwards 
repaired  to  Haslemere  in  Surrey,  to  my  old  friend 
Dakyns. 

This  is  a  delightful  place,  so  perfectly  quiet.  I 
was  upon  a  hill  600  or  700  feet  high,  commanding 
a  glorious  view,  a  real  Poussin,  only  English  to  its 
utmost  marge,  the  greater  part  of  Surrey,  Kent,  and 
Sussex.  You  will  know  it  as  Tennyson's  place.  It 
lies  mainly  on  the  borders  of  these  counties  and 
Hampshire.  The  lines  of  the  North  Downs  melt  here 
into  those  of  the  South  Downs  in  such  a  way  that 
W.  you  have  nothing  but  hills,  E.  and  S.  the  Weald, 
as  it  is  called,  fringed  by  the  furthest  South  Downs 
and  the  sea.  Dakyns'  house  is  on  the  hill  called  Greys- 
wood,  Tennyson's  on  Black  Down,  and  Tindal  (poor 
flighty  mortal  I)  has  enthroned  himself  on  Hind  Head. 

Hind  Head  is  900  feet  high.  It  is  a  delicious  para- 
dise both  of  form  and  colour,  heather,  bilberry,  larch, 
birch,  and  such  a  bold  leonine  attitude — quite  ridicu- 
lous for  such  a  hill,  but  you  submit  yourself  willingly 
to  the  illusion.  Black  Down  is  chiefly  heather — mag- 


i89a]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  155 

nificent  heather,  mind !  Greyswood  is  largely  built 
upon,  but  still  there  is  a  remnant  of  the  old  common, 
a  lovely  little  wilderness  of  gorse,  birch,  bilberry,  and 
heather.  The  heather  is  of  the  three  kinds,  ling,  heath, 
and  cob  heather  (the  two  last  perhaps  better  distin- 
guished as  crimson  bell  and  bog  heather). 

Well,  here  I  soon  became  very  happy,  and  every- 
thing that  the  most  unfailing  and  unstinted  kindness 
could  do  was  done  for  me.  I  got  so  much  better 
during  the  three  weeks  I  stayed  there  that  I  was  able 
to  travel  by  myself  to  Liverpool,  and  next  day  to 
cross  to  the  Island. 

Before  leaving  Haslemere,  I  climbed  Hind  Head 
three  times,  the  last  time  walking  by  myself,  and 
shouting  for  lonely  joy !  .  .  .  When  I  have  climbed 
Barrule,  I  shall  think  it  time  to  return  to  Clifton. 

You  know  that  I  am  giving  up  my  house  and 

mastership.  Where  to  live  ?  That  is  the  question 

Much  musing  and  meditating  I  find  myself  drawn 
mainly  to  this  Island ;  and  you  must  not  be  surprised 
if  you  hear  of  my  settling  down  to  spend  my  old  days 
in  Mannin  Veg  Veen.  .  .  . 

To  J.  R.  MOZLEY. 

CLIFTON, 

June  27,  1892. 

Dakyns  and  wife  have  departed.  They  stayed  two 
days  with  me  and  two  days  with  Glazebrook.  He  dis- 
charged his  difficult  task  admirably— a  really  beautiful 
speech  *,  conceived  in  the  best  taste,  the  tone  sustained 
throughout.  It  was  highly  eulogistic,  but  I  must  not 
1  At  'Commemoration.' 


156          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1892 

say  anything1  about  or  against  that.  They  *  drowned 
me  in  a  bowl,'  i.  e.  presented  me  with  a  silver  vessel, 
in  which  you  could  baptize  a  baby  by  immersion. 


To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

CLIFTON, 

July  a,  1893. 

The  day  is  glorious,  though  overwhelmed  by  such 
memories.  Forgive  me  that  I  could  not  lay  the  ghost 
when  we  parted.  After  all  it  was  of  you  I  thought, 
and  what  you  must  feel,  leaving  your  birth-place  and 
the  scene  of  so  many  joys  and  sorrows,  seeing  it  for 
the  very  last  time  as  your  home  on  earth.  Woe  is 
me  !  But  it  is  inevitable,  and  in  a  few  weeks'  time  we 
shall  all  have  flown  from  the  old  nest.  To-day  I  have 
given  up  my  school  work  for  the  remainder  of  the 
Term.  .  .  .  We  are  eagerly  looking  forward  to  your 
letter.  .  .  .  Mind  you  give  yourself  a  fair  chance  of 
success,  i.  e.  by  carefully  attending  to  your  own  health, 
and  trying  no  experiments  in  the  way  of  diet  or 
abstinence.  God  bless  you. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

WINDSOR  MOUNT,  NORTH  RAMSEY, 

September  18,   1892. 

How  the  wind  howls !  It  has  now  been  at  it  for 
some  three  weeks,  and  there  is  no  sign  of  a  change. 
That  is  the  Manx  climate.  I  remember  when  I  never 
noticed  it ;  but  long  familiarity  with  the  effeminate 
skies  of  England  has  made  me  sensitive.  O  for  a  bit 
of  the  primitive  hardihood !  the  capacity  of  roughing 
it !  A  good  thing,  sir,  a  good  thing  and  (an  !)  useful. 


1892]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  157 

I  have  been  throwing  out  my  social  tentacula. 
Called  on  the  bishop,  who  has  returned  the  call ;  but 
*  we  were  both  out '  has  rather  an  Irish  flavour.  Old 
friends  come  in  and  we  shall  have  much  ado  to  keep 
pace  with  the  genial  folk.  Meantime  it  is  very  hard  to 
say  what  time  I  shall  find  for  reading  or  writing.  I  do 
both  write  and  read,  but  not  overmuch.  I  read  Swift, 
and  I  have  written  for  the  National  Observer  a  review 
of  Burgon's  life.  Many  of  my  friends  are  old  ladies, 
and  they  value  my  society  at  their  whist- tables  ;  and 
I  am,  as  you  know,  very  good-natured— so — what 
would  you  have  ?  A  charming  Hibernian  called  on 
me  the  other  day.  Portentous !  alarming !  He  had 
been  sent  from  Douglas  by  some  evil-disposed  friends 
of  mine  there,  to  consult  me  as  the  supreme  authority 
on  matters  Manx.  Now  of  this  language  I  am,  if  not 
wholly,  yet  at  least  grammatically,  ignorant.  He  was 
a  tall,  stalwart  fellow,  black-bearded,  not  handsome, 
but  with  a  tremendously  Irish  face,  eyes  of  fire,  nose 
of  peremptory  interrogation.  Flourishing  a  wretched 
grammar  in  one  hand,  he  proceeded  rapidly  to  demon- 
strate its  ineptness,  and  sternly  to  demand  my  explana- 
tion. As  my  weak-kneedness  grew  more  painfully 
evident — 

So  scented  the  grim  feature,  and  upturned 
His  nostril  wide  into  the  murky  air, 
Sagacious  of  his  quarry — 

he  almost  shouted  with  exultation.  All  the  Manx 
scholars  had  completely  failed — here  was  another. 
'  Glory  be  to  God  !  I'll  smite  him  hip  and  thigh.'  He 
was  a  splendid  Irishman,  and,  of  course,  kind  and 
generous.  He  didn't  spare  me,  destructed  me  utterly, 


158  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i89, 

but  speedily  constructed  me  upon  new  lines,  and  told 
me  a  lot  about  Celtic  difficulties  and  how  to  overcome 
them.  He  spoke  Irish  like  a  bird,  and  after  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  he  rushed  forth  to  catch 
the  train,  hairy,  immense,  with  some  wild  wirrasthru 
of  farewell.  Imagine  a  very  learned  and  linguistic 
Mulligan  of  Ballymulligan  !  I  duly  received  your 
kind  verses,  apposui  lucro.  I  really  know  not  how 
on  earth  it  is  that  I  get  such  proofs  of  esteem  and 
affection.  Positively  I  am  inclined  to  echo  the  re- 
doubtable M.  and  express  concern  at  the  discovery 
that  men  like  me.  His  predicating  the  reciprocity  as 
being  all  on  the  one  side  I  leave  to  him.  With  me 
the  reciprocity  is  full  to  overflowing1. 

I  went  from  Devonport  to  Rhayader,  meeting  there 
my  sister  and  her  husband.  The  people  don't  speak 
the  Cymric  much,  but  they  are  so  Welsh,  so  unprac- 
tical, in  many  ways  so  charming.  No  trippers,  not 
even  tourists — a  perfect  cessation  of  the  enemy,  a 
cessation  of  all  enemies,  except,  perhaps,  the  tippling 
of  the  natives ;  but  there,  I  am  no  great  enemy  of 
tippling.  It  is  true  they  lie  down  drunk  in  the  streets, 
but  they  look  so  rosy  and  altogether  comely  in  their 
honest  cups ;  and  besides,  I  am  such  a  poor  sleeper, 
that  I  envy  any  one  sound  sleep  wherever  indulged  and 
however  induced. 

TO  G.  H.  WOLLASTON. 

WINDSOR  MOUNT,  NORTH  RAMSEY, 

September  25,  1892. 

How  good  of  you  to  write  to  me  from  Baireuth ! 
It  was  a  most  enjoyable  letter  ;  no  good,  though,  my 


1892]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  159 

attempting  to  answer  it  until  you  come  to  your  point 
of  repose.  Now  you*are  all  right,  and  I  take  a  shot  at 
you  sitting. 

By-the-bye,  you  are  just  before  me  at  this  moment, 
i.  e.  Elliot  and  Fry's  version  ;  and  a  very  fine  version 
it  is  too,  and  much  admiration  it  has  excited  in  the 
bosoms  of  many  fair  dames  of  the  Isle.  You  are,  in 
short  (really  at  considerable  length),  upon  my  mantel- 
piece. 

I  see  Parsifal  is  the  only  work  next  year :  it  is  the 
last  year  for  Baireuth  to  have  undivided  possession  of 
this  glorious  thing,  so  they  are  going  to  have  plenty 
of  it.  May  I  be  there !  not  an  entire  impossibility. 
Will  you  and  Mrs.  Wollaston  be  there  ?  But  this 
is  too  large  an  order  for  human  foresight,  so — 
drop  it! 

O  Wollaston,  the  delight  of  this  leisure !  I  read, 
I  write,  I  play.  Good  gracious !  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  my  music  came  to  something  yet.  I  have  actually 
gone  back  to  singing,  a  vice  of  my  youth.  Don't 
mention  it  at  Clifton !  I  always  think  the  sea  the 
great  challenger  and  promoter  of  song.  Even  the 
mountain  is  not  the  same  thing.  There  may  always 

be  some  d d  fool  or  another  behind  a  rock.  But 

the  sea  is  open,  and  you  can  tell  when  you  are  alone, 
and  the  dear  old  chap  is  so  confidential :  I  will  trust 
him  with  my  secret. 

How  about  Devon  ?  was  it  good  ?  Did  you  all 
bathe  and  '  rux '  yourselves  well  about  in  the  brine  ? 
I  have  not  done  much  in  that  way :  the  storms  have 
been  so  furious — unkind  of  them,  eh  ?  Well,  I  fancy 
it  is  like  the  boisterous  welcome  of  some  great  dog — 


160          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i89a 

at  least,  I  take  it  in  that  sense.  And  the  old  boy  is  so 
strong,  and  he  doesn't  know,  he  thinks  I  am  what 
I  used  to  be.  But  I'm  not :  and  every  now  and  then 
he  remembers  that,  and  creeps  to  my  feet  so  fawn- 
ingly. 

Kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Wollaston,  to  Althea,  and 
all  of  them. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

WINDSOR  MOUNT,  RAMSEY, 

November^,  1892. 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  the  days  go.  Well, 
I  must  confess  that  so  far  they  have  been  mainly 
devoted  to  the  re -establishment  of  my  health.  In  this 
I  have  been  fairly,  but  not  triumphantly,  successful. 
I  breakfast  at  8.30,  and  the  sea  is  my  companion  for 
a  good  three  hours.  I  walk  simply  on  the  shore, 
and  as  near  as  possible  to  the  water's  edge  ;  I  walk, 
save  for  the  dear  old  chum  aforesaid,  alone.  I  lunch 
at  1.30,  having  had  a  short  interval  of  reading.  This 
reading  is  Iddesleian :  no  method,  very  delightful. 
However,  what  with  this  brief  space  and  an  hour  or 
two  besides  scattered  through  the  day,  I  have  read 
a  great  deal  of  Don  Juan,  some  Swift,  and  some 
Johnson,  or  rather,  Boswell  (Tour  to  the  Hebrides}. 
I  have  also  preached  twice,  once  at  King  William's 
College  (my  old  school),  and  once  at  Maughold.  The 
last  occasion  was  a  thing  wonderful  to  relate.  It 
was  at  night,  last  Sunday  night,  magnificent  moon, 
sea  all  'glory,  honour,  and  power.'  Barrule  black 
as  jet,  pyramidal,  unutterable.  The  church  bursting 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  161 

with  fire  and  bright  faces :  entering  at  the  west  door, 
it  looked  like  a  tunnel  of  flame.  The  churchyard  too 
was  full,  a  curiously  eager  '  company  of  witnesses ' 
glowering  in  upon  me.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe 
it,  except  by  saying  that  it  gave  one  the  idea  of 
a  Cyclopian  spiritual  smithy,  of  which  I  myself  was 
the  smith,  and  the  good  old  parson  the  bellows  - 
blower.  Out  flew  the  sparks,  and  these  blessed  old 
Kelts  caught  them  in  their  fine  raptured  faces  as 
children  do  looking  in  upon  the  smitten  anvil.  The 
church  was  decorated  for  a  Harvest  Thanksgiving. 
1  Go  it ! '  and  so  I  did,  with  much  satisfaction  to 
myself,  possibly  to  others. 

To-morrow  I  preach  (Harvest  Thanksgiving — late 
is  it  not  ?)  at  Ballaugh.  That  is  a  tamer  place,  but 
hallowed  to  me  by  certain  recollections,  and  I  suspect 
I  shall  be  much  moved.  What  egotism  all  this  is! 
Pray,  forgive ! 

I  have  been  to  Government  House,  dined,  and  slept 
there,  on  Thursday  last. 

I  took in  to  dinner.  She  talked  beautifully, 

and  without  the  shadow  of  affectation,  and  talked  so 
fluently,  and  so  intelligently.  .  .  . 

For  music,  imagine  me,  choragus,  virtuoso  in- 
signissimo — here  again  I  fancy  I  hear  something  of 
a  titter.  Silence,  sir !  One  of  the  phenomena  of  this 
leisure  is  the  recrudescence  of  my  music.  Of  course 
it  is  favoured  by  the  medi^l'^n.  The  company  were 
quite  willing  to  be  pleased— commended  me  heartily. 
That  is  something  worth  living  for.  I  must  off  to  my 
sermon. 


162  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1892 

To  CANON  RAWNSLEY. 

RAMSEY,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 

November  18,  1892. 

Will  you  kindly  send  me  all  useful  information 
about  the  '  Footpaths  Defence  Association '  ?  All 
papers  thereanent  would  be  received  gratefully. 
How  about  the  '  Lakes '  in  particular  ?  Is  that  a 
special  thing  ?  Hints  as  to  the  best  way  of  setting 
about  the  same  business  here  would  be  very  welcome. 
Some  brief  digest  of  the  actual  Law  of  Trespass  would 
come  in  nicely.  Leaflets  various,  especially  any  from 
your  own  trenchant  pen,  would  quite  set  me  up. 

[Canon  Rawnsley  elsewhere  quotes  a  saying  of 
Mr.  Brown's :  '  the  meanest  thing  a  man  can  do  is 
to  shut  up  a  footpath.'] 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  18,  1892. 

You  are  now  within  measurable  distance  of  the 
Christmas  holidays,  after,  I  hope,  a  prosperous  and 
happy  Term.  I  don't  often  get  beyond  the  shore,  it 
is  so  clean  and  sparkling  with  gravel  and  foam-edge. 
Yesterday,  it  is  true,  I  went  up  a  glen  just  to  meet 
a  genuine  mountain  stream,  which  rewarded  me  with 
some  fine  ferns  quite  fresh  and  young.  A  thick 
fog-bank  lay  out  at  sea:  you  were  blotted  out,  sir, 
absolutely  obliterated,  you  and  your  island!  i.e. 
geographically  and  visually :  but  I  thought  of  you 
all  the  more. 

Of  literature  I  partake  as  follows.      Mozley  has 


i89»]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  163 

been  over,  and  I  found  that  he  had  never  disused  the 
energy  of  '  Repetition  V  At  the  same  time  I  had 
been  led,  I  hardly  know  how,  to  cultivate  this  path 
or  byway  of  letters  ever  since  I  came  over  here. 
Comparing1  notes  we  discovered,  to  our  great  joy, 
that  our  memories  were  as  strong  as  ever,  our 
appetite  keen,  and  power  of  retention  quite  unim- 
paired. Isn't  that  good  ?  Really  it  provides  for  the 
whole  of  my  future  life,  and  the  close  sympathy 
between  men  who  squat  down  upon  this  common 
field  of  flowers  is  most  comforting.  Nothing  tends 
to  make  the  mind  more  open  and  cheerful.  There  is 
something  about  it  of  '  the  discipline,'  but  we  lay  it 
gently  on  our  shoulders.  Then  the  realization  of 
power  is  refreshing:  very  satisfactory  too  is  the 
sensation  of  stowage.  Idleness  and  emptiness  are 
banished,  and  it  is  with  a  good  packet  of  sound 
and  wholesome  stuff  that  I  hope  to  stagger  up  at 
last  to  St.  Peter's  wicket.  Ten  lines  a  day — but, 
bless  my  soul !  don't  let  us  think  of  it  in  that  way. 

So  far  I've  been  lining  the  chambers  with  English : 
but,  as  I  find  greater  facility,  I  hope  to  add  Latin  and 
Greek.  One  charming  exercise  is  the  alternation  of 
Par.  Lost  with  old  Ballads.  The  Milton  comes  on 
rather  heavily  as  yet,  but  under  the  Ballads  I  bound 
and  curvet.  It  is  marvellous  what  things  and  tones 
come  out  in  the  Milton  as  you  treat  it  in  this  fashion. 
False  notes  too,  unexpected  lapsus — the  glorious  old 
boy !  But,  O  Irwin !  the  leisure  of  it !  the  leisure 
of  it !  This  is  at  last  life.  Yes,  they  were  great,  and 
we — well,  never  mind !  .  .  . 

1  The  learning  of  poetry  by  heart. 
L  2 


1 64          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1892 

I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Governor. 
I  called  and  left  a  card,  and  immediately  received  an 
invitation  to  dinner.  His  Excellency  met  me  himself 
with  his  dog- cart.  It  was  very  nice,  and  I  slept  there 
(not  in  the  dog-cart!).  He  is  distinctly  a  literary 
person;  and  so  is  his  wife.  The  party  was  rather 
big  and  tremendous,  but  at  breakfast  next  morning 
we  were  more  by  ourselves,  and  the  talk  was  pleasant. 

They  introduced  me  to  some  American  writers  whom 
I  had  not  seen,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  had  the  honour 
of  introducing  them  to  Tom  Sawyer.  The  Governor 
has  a  fair  library  ('  closet  of  books ').  It  was  amusing 
to  note  how  he  caught  at  my  Boswell  (Toztr),  which 
I  had  taken  with  me  to  read  by  the  way.  The  binding 
rather  amazed  him.  He  supposed  I  hadn  't  all  my 
books  boimd  in  that  way,  but  a  few  of  my  darlings  / 

I  like  other  things  here,  the  knitting  again  of  old 
connexions,  the  familiar  intercourse  with  the  old  folk, 
the  impinging  of  old  tones  upon  the  ear  of  desuetude  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  it  is  not  without  a  distinct  thrill 
of  pleasure  that  I  enter  once  more  into  the  easy  con- 
ventions of  polite  society — easy,  mind !  for  these  people 
are  easy  with  the  ease  that  has  some  depth  of  root. 
Yet  the  Governor  is  an  out-and-out  Radical !  and  here 
I  am,  locally,  a  Conservative.  But  what  utter  bosh  it 
all  is !  Of  course  I  am  embedded  in  Conservative 
surroundings,  steeped  to  the  throat  in  the  finest  and 
most  richly  conserved  juices  of  the  retrograde  mind. 
This  too  is  such  a  relief.  .  .  . 

Few  men  are  capable  of  this  retirement.  /  am. 
Now  don't  think  me  conceited :  it  is  the  simplest  fact. 
All  life  hitherto  has  detained  me  from  my  true  life. 


1892]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  165 

The  rebound,  if  not  quick,  is  effectual,  natural,  in- 
evitable. Absolutely  now,  and  without  any  humbug, 
I  could  live  here  with  nothing  but  a  Horace. 

But  this  affords  no  basis  for  self-complacency,  I 
assure  you.  Why  am  I  not  a  man  of  affairs,  a  man 
useful  in  my  day  and  generation,  '  a  great  man '  ? 
Wilson  once  put  to  me  that  home  question,  and  I  was 
dumb  before  him  ;  I  am  still  dumb. 

One  thing  I  feel  is  growing  upon  me,  and  that  is 
egotism. 

Do  pardon  all  this  talk  about  self,  and  recurrence 
itemm  atque  iterzim  to  self  and  its  weaknesses. 

How  are  you  all  ?  There  now !  There's  a  vigorous 
and  rather  na'if  effort  to  get  out  of  myself.  For 
instance,  how  is  N.  ?  Is  he  going  to  get  married  ? 
Don't  let  him  do  so  on  any  account.  He  is  a  most 
consummate  bachelor,  trim,  neat,  in  mind  and  body : 
don't  let  him  be  divided  into  parts,  or  dissipated  in 
domestic  mince.  I  would  have  him  always  rerpdycoroj, 
and  ready  for  celibate  activities.  If  he  by  any  chance 
should  be  seduced  from  his  allegiance  to  the  laurel, 
I  shall  expect  a  complaint  from  the  Queen  whose 
service  he  will  have  deserted. 

Then  up  and  spak  the  Queen  of  Fairies, 

Out  of  a  bush  of  broom, 
'  She  that  has  borrowed  the  young  N. 

Has  gotten  a  bonnie  groom.' 
Then  up  and  spak  the  Queen  of  Fairies, 

Out  of  a  bush  of  rye, 
'  She 's  ta'en  awa'  the  [nobbiest]  knight 

In  a'  my  companye.' 

.  .  .  What  a  ripper  Birkbeck T  is !     He  is  almost  too 

1  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill,  editor  of  Boswell's  Johnson. 


166          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i89> 

exhaustive ;  keeps  you  '  annotated '  to  the  fraction  of 
a  hair.  On  the  contrary  the  big  '  Pope '  is,  I  regret 
to  say,  a  failure:  the  notes  are  quite  capricious  in 
their  incidence  and  leave  you  '  darkling.' 


To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  30,  1892. 

I  really  hope  you  have  got  into  good  ways  of 
sleeping.  Most  nights  our  chimneys  roar  like  active 
volcanoes.  I  had  thought  I  was  getting  inured  to  this, 
but — fiddlededee  !  last  night  all  the  winds  of  heaven 
combined  and  brought  to  bear  upon  me  a  perfect 
battery.  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink.  The  fun  of  it  is  that 
these  vagabond  children  of  Aeolus,  after  raving  like 
the  worst  possible  form  of  tom-cat  all  night,  towards 
dawn  become  quite  decorous  and  sneak  away  4  to  their 
several  caves,'  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  their 
mouths,  and,  if  that  is  not  a  sweet  confusion  of  meta- 
phors, leave  it  alone ! 

The  piano  has  been  tuned  to-day  by  a  man  from 
L'pool,  a  'ter'ble'  nice  young  man.  I  played  him 
'  Myl-y-charane,'  and  he  played  me  a  Cornish  Florida. 
Fancy !  these  are  the  agrements  of  Manx  life.  Do 
you  know  what  a  Florida  is  ?  A  dance  tune  at  the 
Cornish  Floridas ;  and  the  Cornish  Florida  is  the  May- 
day fete,  and  would  seem  to  be  the  Floralia  of  the 
ancient  Romans  handed  down  from  the  British 
period.  Fancy  one  of  Smith's  tuners  meeting  me 
in  this  intelligent  and  sympathetic  fashion !  .  .  . 


1892]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  167 

TO   MISS  E.   BROWN1. 

RAMSEY, 

December  n,  1892. 

The  blizzard  extended  here,  and  with  full  vigour. 
I  was  in  Douglas.  The  snow  began  on  Sunday 
morning,  but  we  started  for  Kirk  Braddan,  I  without 
an  umbrella.  It  became  terrific,  and  on  Monday  we 
awoke  to  a  world  which  was  past  recognition.  We 
had  never  thought  of  this ;  we  had  been  befooled  into 
the  belief  that  it  hardly  ever  snowed  at  all  in  the  Isle 
of  Man.  I  spent  Saturday  to  Wednesday  last  in 
Braddan.  As  a  question  of  interior  it  was  delightful ; 
of  exterior,  a  howling  waste  of  mud  and  black  and 
white  horror.  ...  M.  is  deeply  interested  in  Manx 
history  and  antiquities.  So  we  got  on  splendidly 
together.  Part  of  my  mission  there  was  to  advise  him 
upon  a  book  he  is  bringing  out  of  Manx  songs,  and 
I  discovered  quite  a  treasure.  ...  At  Copenhagen, 
in  the  museum,  he  examined  the  papers  of  an  old 
Danish  professor  who  died  somewhere  about  1 750. . . . 
Among  these  papers  he  found  a  Manx  song,  with 
English  translation  written  by  Archdeacon  Rutter, 
afterwards  bishop  of  the  island,  in  about  1680.  It  is 
a  gem :  but  the  English  is  so  delicious  that  I  can't 
help  suspecting  that  it  is  the  original.  Still,  the  Manx 
is  wonderful,  and  makes  a  gallant  effort  to  express 
the  quintessential  cavalier  philosophy  of  a  poet  who 
might  have  signed  himself  Herrick  or  Lovelace.  Well 
done  the  *  Lil  Oilan ! '  Fancy  its  producing  such  fruit ! 
The  Hesperides  are  nothing  to  it. 
1  Vide  Appendix. 


1 68  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [189; 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

December  26,   1892. 

I  have  read  your  '  Cowper '  with  much  pleasure.  It 
is  surprising  how  you  have  found  time  to  write  two 
articles  and  the  verses  while  the  shuttle  of  examination 
has  been  rattling  about  your  ears.  .  .  . 

It  is  useless  denying  that  I  was  complacently  present 
in  the  spirit  at  the  '  plague  l  '  and  all  its  horrors.  It 
was  only  human  nature  to  suck  the  full  juice  of  my 
exemption.  To  do  this  effectually  I  had  to  summon 
you  all  to  the  bar  of  my  intensest  realization — the 
masters'  meetings,  the  lapses  of  temper,  the  lost 
papers,  the  missing  marks,  all  the  devil's  own  brew  of 
bothers ;  and  I,  pipe  in  mouth,  glass  of  hot  toddy  at 
my  side,  and  not  a  care,  except  the  care  to  get  to  the 
very  depth  of  the  ironic  misery.  O !  I  did  enjoy  my- 
self. And  so,  having  exquisitely  sympathized,  I  now 
am  the  more  prepared  to  be  with  you  in  the  blessed- 
ness of  the  repose  that  has  followed.  May  the  gods 
grant  you  the  plenary  seisin  of  your  luck. 

I  have  been  roaming :  been  to  Peel,  and  seen  lovely 
children  and  dear  nice  people.  A  cousin  of  mine 
gave  an  entertainment  at  her  school.  The  little  ones 
performed  what  was  majestically  styled  a  cantata ;  but 
it  was  only  a  series  of  nursery  rhymes,  arranged  at 
random  ;  for  you  are  to  consider  that,  in  the  evolution 
of  such  a  sequence,  it  matters  not  whether  *  Little  Bo- 
peep  '  precede  '  Little  Jack  Horner,'  or  succeed  that 

1  Examination  week. 


,893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  169 

voluptuary.  Not  the  least  interesting  person  was  an 
old  music-mistress,  who  entered  into  the  delight  of 
the  children  with  a  delight  all  her  own,  but  wholly 
beautiful,  dashed,  too,  with  a  flavour  of  aside  at  the 
grown-up  members  of  the  party.  To  that  dear  old 
thing  I  say  heartily,  '  God  bless  thee !  thou  art  good.' 
Indeed  I  could  have  hugged  her.  '  For  these  and  all 
His  other  mercies,1  &c. :  they  are  a  great  comfort  to 
me,  and  one  sweet  unselfish  old  maid  will  set  me  up 
for  a  week. 

Altogether  it  will  be  very  hard  to  get  me  away 
from  this  perfectly  bewitching  place.  I  have  a  sort 
of  hold  over  the  people  which  I  feel  is  not  precarious. 
How  fortunate  it  is  to  have  had  forbears !  well,  let  us 
say  at  all,  but  such  as  mine,  so  good,  and  of  good 
report.  Don't  think  me  egotistic !  But  you  have 
no  idea  how  the  old  echoes  repercuss  and  make  music 
of  my  life.  One  goes  to  see  a  dear  old  creature  of 
eighty-one :  she  knows  you  and  everything  about 
you,  everything  behind  you,  and,  if  possible,  before 
you.  .  .  .  These  (the  elders)  are  such  as  I  would 
fondly  hope  are  gathering  a  gentle  soothing  sort  of 
gossip  about  me  to  tell  the  happy  majores  when  they 
meet  them  in  Elysium. 

To  CANON  RAWNSLEY. 

RAMSEY, 

January  10,  1893. 

I'm  *  shoy  uncommon,'  but  still  not  as  bad  as 
'  yandhar.'  '  In  the  Coach  '  (stc)  will  appear  in  my 
new  volume,  which  Macmillan  has  already  in  hand. 


170  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

What  was  W doing— blaspheming  generally 

or  specifically  ?  He's  a  *  ter'ble  '  man.  But  isn't  he 
good  ?  and  don't  I  love  him  ?  that's  all.  Thanks  for 
the  sonnet.  I  don't  know,  but  some  way  one  gener- 
ally ends  a  letter  to  you  like  this.  *  Navau  thee  moin, 
John  Thomas ! '  But  hold  hard  !  I  must  not  forget 
you're  a  foreigner.  '  'Scuse  the  Manx  that's  at  me ! ' 

Why  not  *  nobler,'  or  still  better  *  sweeter '  ?  The 
comparative  is  both  adjective  and  adverb. 

Kindest  wishes  for  this  new  customer. 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

January  29,   1893. 

The  verses  are  most  refreshing.  Nothing  so  bright 
and  cheerful  as  these  winged  creatures.  Always  send 
me  the  latest  brood.  I  have  at  last  got  off  my  Mac- 
millan  parcel,  and  I  suppose  before  the  week's  end 
proofs  will  be  flying  northwards.  The  volume  begins 
with  *  Old  John,'  and  ends  with  '  At  the  Play,'  which 
you  may  remember  I  wrote  for  you,  accompanying  it 
with  a  Latin  translation.  The  translation,  however, 
is  omitted ! !  I  am  proud  to  say  that  my  book  will 
not  contain  a  single  word  of  translation.  I  had 
a  pretty  little  matter  enough  of  La  Prade,  but  we 
must  positively  withstand  this  dreadful  cacoethes 
transferendi. 

The  scene  at  Peel  was  perfectly  delightful.  When 
you  get  the  paper  you  will  observe  some  votes  of 
thanks  proposed  in  Manx.  These  are  the  cream  of 
the  joke.  The  proposers  were  the  dearest  old  fellows. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  171 

They  stood  up  in  their  places,  and  did  the  whole 
thing  in  perfect  good  faith. 

The  tremendous  earnestness  of  these  blessed  old 
Kelts  does  not  debar  them  from  a  levity  which  is  simply 
ethereal  and  heavenly.  They  have  such  faith  in  one, 
and  unbounded  reverence  for  what  they  suppose  to 
be  one's  l  larnin','  and  yet  such  sympathy  with  one's 
nonsense.  They  are  indeed  *  gleg  at  the  uptak ' ; 
never  miss  a  point,  however  dodgy.  The  princess 
showed  her  thorough  breeding  by  the  discomfort  she 
experienced  from  the  one  crumpled  rose-leaf  in  a  bed 
of  roses.  My  dear  old  friends  discover  theirs  by 
detecting  the  merest  suggestion  of  a  point  through 
all  the  wrinkles  that  I  can  complicate. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

February  26,   1893. 

Spring  has  just  looked  in  upon  us  and  gone.  I 
don't  know  why.  I  for  one  was  prepared  to  give  her 
a  hearty  welcome.  Certain  crocuses  of  my  acquain- 
tance were  of  the  same  mind,  and  applauded  her 
in  their  meek  manner;  a  brace  of  tame  hyacinths 
expanded  into  perceptible,  though  slightly  guarded 
satisfaction,  as  becomes  their  quality  of  breeding,  and 
she  turned  away  in  a  frump ;  and  here  is  the  demon 

of  the  pole— a  blizzard,  a but  language  fails  me. 

Besides,  I  can't  get  to  church,  and  the  withdrawal  of 
my  ordinary  *  intellectual,  moral,  and  spiritual '  (Per- 
cival's  old  trivium)  has  made  me  cross,  and  this  may 
continue. 

Wherefore  send  me  Crabbe.      Twere  a  pleasant 


1 72  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

leap  from  the  Pisces  to  Cancer.  .  .  .  People  talk 
about  Crabbe,  but  they  don't  read  him.  Urge  them 
to  do  so :  likely  enough  you  will  only  get  them  to 
read  your  article,  but  that  will  do  them  a  lot  of  good  ; 
and  it  certainly  will  do  me  good,  old  Crabbian  though 
I  profess  myself.  .  .  . 

'  The  young  man  that  played  the  clarionet.' 
This  matter  had  a  funny  sequel.  Letter  from  a 
rising  Liverpool  tradesman  ;  says  he  was  the  '  young 
man,'  &c.  Asks  for  explanations  and  so  forth :  had 
been  a  pupil  of  mine  in  the  Castletown  Night-School. 
Wounded,  feelings  lacerated,  &c.  I  was  greatly 
alarmed.  Issue.  He  was  the  '  young  man,'  but  not 
the  '  young  man '  who,  after  the  Liverpool  meeting, 
claimed  the  proud  position  of  ex-clarionet  player  to 
your  humble  servant.  That  young  man  seems  to 
have  been  an  impostor  ;  by  comparison  of  dates,  could 
not  have  been  more  than  minus  two  years  of  age  at 
the  time  of  the  clarionet  performance — '  a  marvellous 
boy,'  rather  embryon,  if  ever  there  was.  The  real 
ci-devant  artist  is  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  a  most 
prosperous  man  moreover;  we  have  fallen  on  each 
other's  necks,  and  the  incident  is  closed. 


To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

RAMSEY,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 

March  10,   1893. 

I  am  quite  ashamed.  Your  two  letters  make  me 
blush.  I  always  keep  your  letters.  They  have  so 
much  salt  in  them  that  there  is  no  fear  of  their  keep- 
ing. But  that  is  no  reason  why  they  should  remain 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  173 

unanswered.  Marine  salt  we  have  here  in  plenty, 
but  the  Attic  stuff  is  rather  wanting.  Thrice  welcome 
therefore  are  your  communications.  You  want  to 
know  how  I  am,  and  what  I  do.  I  am  slowly  re- 
covering. Sometimes  I  seem  to  catch  sight  of  the 
solid  ultimate  recovery,  but  it  is  a  slow  business.  The 
Island  certainly  suits  me.  The  air  is  delicious  and 
strengthening.  Only  the  winds  are  devilish,  and  sleep 
is  hard  to  get. 

I  read  much,  not  systematically,  but  in  the  beloved 
Iddesleyian  fashion — desultorily.  French  I  now  never 
touch.  What  you  say  of  Flaubert  gives  me  qualms. 
Do  go  on,  and  let  us  have  something  about  him. 

I  have  been  wandering  through  Swift  a  good  deal. 
The  hearty  cursing  in  his  Tale  of  a  Tub  goes 
straight  to  my  midriff — so  satisfying,  the  best  of  tonics. 
For  absolute  splendour  too,  commend  me  to  his 
chapters  about  the  Aeolists !  Defoe  is  with  me  not 
seldom.  The  style  of  these  men  is  refreshing.  For 
narrative,  it  would  be  difficult  to  beat  Defoe.  The 
History  of  a  Cavalier  is  a  downright  masterpiece. 

A  friend  has  lent  me  a  lot  of  eighteenth-century 
letters  stowed  up  in  his  family  archives.  They  are 
entertaining,  and,  I  think,  instructive.  Largely  written 
by  parsons,  they  go  far  to  show  that  Macaulay  was 
all  wrong  about  the  matter.  These  old  fellows  were 
more  literary,  better  scholars,  finer  humourists  than 
we  can  now  boast  in  the  Church.  It  is  delightful  to 
see  them  pelting  one  another  with  Latin,  and,  very 
occasionally,  with  Greek  quotations.  Trulliber  is  no- 
where. Of  course  there  were  Trullibers,  and,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  there  are.  But  for  social  amenity, 


174          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

for  polite  friendship,  not  the  less  true  that  it  was 
polite,  my  old  friends  stand  very  high  indeed. 

You  might  call  this  a  quiet  place,  but  I  find  it  full 
of  all  the  sins  and  all  the  frailties.  I  look  for  them, 
you  know,  turn  over  every  stone,  and  expose  the 
grubs  and  beetles — they  are  awfully  interesting,  the 
only  entomology  I  care  for. 

If  you  are  well-to-do,  and  tolerably  stupid,  nicely 
married,  and  all  that,  you  might  lie  on  the  burning 
lake  and  tuck  the  blankets  around  you.  Is  there  not 
asbestos  ?  and  why  make  yourself  miserable  ? 

To  be  well  shut  of  schools  and  things  scholastic  is 
a  prime  bliss.  But  you  are  still  in  it — don't  kick  too 
much  ;  only  I  am  glad  that  there  is  a  bit  of  kick  left 
in  you.  So  mote  it  be  ! 

I  hope  your  recent  experience  will  not  stop  your 
writing  to  me.  I  can  promise  you  reciprocity  not 
altogether '  one-sided.'  That  reminds  me  of  Irwin.  He 
writes  to  me,  and  his  letters  are  a  great  consolation. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

February  28,   1893. 

February  goes  out  like  a  snow-white  lamb ;  the 
sea  round  its  neck  like  a  blue  ribbon.  .  .  .  How 
about  primroses  ?  You  lie  too  high,  I  should  suppose, 
for  wild  ones.  Crocuses  must  now  be  abundant. 
They  are  so  here.  A  stick  or  two  of  mezereon  sends 
a  shrewd  thrust  of  spring  smell  (Duft)  through  the 
borders ;  and  Lent  lilies  are  preparing  to  be  gorgeous. 
But  wild  primroses — of  them  the  faintest  prognostic. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  175 

I  long  to  be  out  and  seeing-  to  all  this  ;  and  soon 
I  hope  to  be  aiding  and  abetting  in  the  most  active 
manner. 

Much  delight  is  mine  in  a  big  box  of  MSS.  lent  me 
by  a  young  Manx  friend — eighteenth-century  letters 
of  his  family,  particularly  of  one  member  thereof. 
I  go  on  from  year  to  year  as  through  a  garden  with 
walks  and  parterres  and  borders,  all  so  sweet  and 
good.  The  old  man  was  a  humourist,  and  was  famed 
in  his  day  as  the  '  Manx  Swift.'  A  grand  old  fellow : 
not  a  Swift  (!) — good  gracious,  no !  not  so  great  by  a 
thousand  miles,  nor  so  unhappy  ;  but  perfectly  sound, 
and  most  excellent  company.  I  have  just  finished 
the  box — perhaps  five  or  six  hundred  letters.  They 
all  go  to  produce  chyle  for  the  big  book1.  Well, 
I  will  not  say  chyle,  but  8id0e<n?.  To  attain  that  will 
be  a  supreme  delight. 

To  THE  REV.  H.  J.  WISEMAN. 

RAMSEY, 

March  10,  1893. 

I  was  much  interested  in  what  you  say  about  the 
hymn  book.  After  all,  each  generation  must  have 
its  turn :  it  is  only  fair  that  it  should  discharge  the 
function  as  decently  as  possible,  but  with  full  purpose 
of  self-assertion.  I  suppose  we  had  our  turn.  We 
liked  certain  hymns  from  old  associations.  The 
associations  failing,  the  hymns  can't  be  liked. 

The  '  school  song '  I  fear  must  keep.  I  have 
materials  put  away  somewhere,  and  some  day  I 

1  The  Island  Diocese. 


176  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

believe  I  shall  tackle  them.  But  the  mood  is  a  rare 
one,  and  becomes  progressively  rarer. 

I  am  greatly  deterred  by  the  fear  of  imposing  on 
you  a  song-  which  might  be  inadequate,  and  which 
you  might  find  distasteful,  and  yet  be  under  some 
kind  of  cu8ws  about  rejecting1. 

The  right  song1  should  come  to  the  front  at  one 
stride :  there  should  be  no  possibility  of  a  mistake 
about  it. 

I  fear  me  much,  my  Wiseman  dear, 
That  we  sail  come  till  harm. 

And  yet  I  am  unwilling  to  hand  it  over  to  any  one 
else.  That's  the  sort  of  critters  we  are. 

To  A.  W.  MOORE. 

RAMSEY, 

March  12,  1893. 

For  weeks  and  weeks  I  have  lived  in  the  eighteenth 
century  up  to  the  eyes1,  and  have  had  a  delightful 
time.  x  What  dear  old  fellows ! 

Then  the  colouring — matters  of  postage  and  car- 
riage of  goods — the  whole  life  of  the  time — men 
going-  to  and  fro,  the  '  Custom- horses,'  the  wives,  &c. 
carried  in  creels  across  the  backs  of  some  venerable 
old  Dobbin — the  exquisite  manners,  warmth  of  friend- 
ship, combined  with  respect  and  deference. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

March  19,   1893. 

The  article  is  very  good,  but  I  scarcely  think  it 
would  hit  its  mark  now.  Shoot  folly  as  it  flies. 

1  Referring  to  some  eighteenth-century  letters  from  Manx  clergy 
that  I  had  lent  him.— A.  W.  M. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  177 

Look  out  for  another  emergence :  any  day  some  such 
bubble  may  float  up  from  the  depths  of  the  fatuous. 
They  are  astounding. 

Hugh  is  at  our  gates.  Passed  Prawle  Point  on 
Friday,  arrived  Gravesend  Saturday.  Has  gone  on, 
I  fancy,  to  Clifton,  where  he  will  see  his  sister  Dora. 
He  will  next  proceed  Manxman,  and  we  hope  to 
have  him  here  on  Wednesday.  Whereupon  the  fatted 
calf,  &c.,  for  this  very  guiltless  prodigal. 

B.  fled  from  the  face  of  our  visitors.  You  can 
depict  to  yourself  the  hiatus  (if  a  hiatus  can  be  de- 
picted) that  separates  him  from  the  enthusiastic  and 
ebullient  X.  Meantime  he  is  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hiatus,  safe,  sardonic,  derisive ! 

How  amazing  is  the  Review  of  Reviews  /  I  suppose 
you  never  see  it.  In  a  dreadful  ancillary,  i.  e.  scullery, 
back-kitcheny  way,  it  ministers  miscellaneous  pabulum, 
on  which  it  is  not  impossible  to  feed. 

Do  you  see  Longman's  P  If  so,  you  are  aware 
that  Andrew  Lang  writes  for  it  a  sort  of  causerie, 
'  At  the  Sign  of  the  Ship  ' :  sometimes  good.  Poor 
old  Thackeray  would  have  called  it  not  a  causerie, 
but  a  '  roundabout  paper  ' ;  and  what  for  no  ?  In  the 
number  for  this  month  there  is  a  ramblement  (that's 
another  name  that  would  save  recourse  to  French) 
by  old  A.  K.  H.  B.  He  calls  it '  Of  a  Wilful  Memory ' ; 
and,  do  you  know,  it  seems  to  me  quite  delightful. 
It  includes  a  high  appreciation  of  Henley  as  a  poet. 
There  is  one  thing  about  *  language '  as  used  by  sailors 
that  you'd  like.  Said  a  preacher,  *  Ah,  the  fearful 
nouns,  the  appalling  adjectives,  and  the  tremenduous 
(sic)  verbs,  one  hears  down  at  the  harbour ! ' 

I  M 


178  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1893 

And  then  the  man  who  wanted  St.  Andrews  to  be 
prayed  for.  At  a  great  prayer-meeting  requests  were 
being  made  that  divers  souls,  supposed  to  be  in  evil 
case,  should  be  interceded  for.  One  arose  and  asked 
the  prayers  of  the  meeting  for  a  little  town  on  the 
east  coast  of  Scotland,  which  was  *  wholly*  given  to 
idolatry.'  Such  was  the  expression.  A  little  city, 
with  many  schools,  also  the  seat  of  a  University. 
Having  thus  mysteriously  indicated  the  place,  the 
excellent  individual  plainly  felt  that  no  mortal  could 
possibly  guess  what  place  was  meant ;  and  putting 
his  hand  over  his  mouth,  he  said  to  his  friends  on  the 
platform,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  distinctly  heard  over 
the  entire  hall,  '  St.  Andrews  ! '  Isn't  that  consum- 
mate ?  isn't  it  Scotland  ? 

I  have  now  hardly  time  left  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
finally  done  with  the  G.  O.  M.  and  his  Home-Rule. 
The  Welsh  business  has  sickened  me,  and  I  pass 
over  !  Take  me  to  your  bosom  ! 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

March  31,   1893. 

Of  Crabbe — what  shall  I  say  ?  I  shall  never  forget 
what  I  felt  when  I  read  a  certain  article  on  Crabbe. 
It  was  so  patronizing,  and  so  full  of  the  pretence  at 
appreciation  and  sympathy.  You  know  the  kind  of 
person  !  N.  is  another  of  the  gang.  It  would  never 
do  to  admit  their  blindness ;  but  blind  they  are,  non 
omnia  possumiis  omnes.  One  may  be  all  sorts  of 
admirable  things,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  one  has 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  179 

a  right  to  sit  down  on  the  same  sofa  with  Crabbe. 
At  the  same  time  one  has  to  remember  that  the  limita- 
tions imposed  by  homogeneous  homespun  don't  for 
a  moment  qualify  one  for  intimate  converse  with  the 
author  of  the  Parish  Register.  It  is  simply  lovely 
to  think  of  Burke  and  Fox,  and  how  they  stood 
related  to  Crabbe.  They  were  distinctly  adequate. 
Byron  too,  with  all  his  gin -sling  and  democratic  bosh, 
was  fit  to  come  within  the  charmed  circle.  I  could 
fancy  you  and  the  old  vicar  in  a  blessed  eighteenth- 
century  parlour.  If  it  had  had  for  its  last  tenant 
him  of  Wakefield,  all  the  better.  The  next  occupant 
would  surely  be  Gitlielmus  Brown,  vir  nulla  non 
donandtis  laurit. 

You  don't  put  Withers'  point  a  propos  of  Lucian,  &c. 
But  I  am  wholly  with  you  as  to  Lucian  and  Ovid 1. 
About  Shakespeare  —  doubtful.  I  should  always 
hesitate  to  attribute  to  Shakespeare  any  artistic  or 
literary  intention.  The  fountain  is  too  deep,  too 
universal,  at  once  geyser  and  cataclysm.  I  feel  sure 
that  the  humour  of  his  citizens,  in  the  Roman  plays 
for  instance,  was  not  to  him  heightened  or  even 
qualified  by  the  cross-sensing  of  the  anachronism. 
Of  course  he  had  bona  fide  Elizabethan  Englishmen 
under  his  hand.  But  I  don't  think  he  was  con- 
scious of  the  difference.  To  me  it  is  amusing;  to 
him  it  was  not  (es  war  nicht  da}.  To  us  it  yields 
a  flavour  piquant  enough ;  to  him  I  am  pretty 
confident  that  its  presence  or  suggestion  would 
have  been  a  bore.  So  genuine  is  the  outflow,  so 
pure  and  vital. 

1  Discussion  as  to  their  use  of  anachronisms. 
M  2 


i8o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1893 

I  am  now  not  doing  much,  not  reading,  not  writing, 
not  even  Rep.1  The  fact  is  I  am  not  well,  and  can- 
not tackle  anything  with  gusto.  For  a  man  in  this 
state  the  most  obviously  dainty  and  delicate  things 
are  the  only  diet.  Your  letters,  for  instance  (would 
that  they  were  more  frequent  and  longer),  the 
rarissima  penna  of  Dakyns,  and  Ethel's  talk,  Dora's 
letters  too  (which  are  perfectly  charming),  keep  me 
going.  The  intervals  I  am  fain  to  occupy  with  the 
Eclogues.  How  exquisite  they  are  !  With  what  perfect 
contentment  they  fill  me !  The  sweetest  utterances  sure 
of  any  tongue  that  ever  warbled  or  prattled,  or — 
what  did  it  not)  If  I  get  a  bit  more  serious  (this  is 
Good  Friday)  I  take  up  the  AJax.  There  too  I  am 
on  safe  ground.  And  yet — I  had  rather  be  free 
of  all  this !  Out  in  the  wilderness !  unconditioned, 
purged  of  thought.  That  is  Heaven !  which  reminds 
me  that  the  gannets  are  here  again — the  bould  birds ! 
They  do  look  so  glorious !  They  fish  here,  but  not 
in  winter.  I  imagine  they  are  on  their  way  back  from 
the  tropics  ;  and  have  just  called  in  to  have  a  look  at 
our  bay,  which  is  now  in  fine  fishing  ferment.  Or 
they  may  have  already  built  their  nests  in  the  Hebrides, 
and  intend  retiring  there  to-night.  Nothing  is  im- 
possible to  such  ardour  and  keenness — lTtnto\&.<j>vta.<>. 
Well,  hardly  that;  no  opportunists  they.  I  suffer 
much  from  the  want  of  a  good  classical  library. 
Constantly  I  find  myself  hampered.  True,  it  drives 
me  in  upon  my  reserves,  and  that  has  its  advantages. 

1  Repetition, '  learning  poetry  by  heart.' 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  181 

To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

March  31,   1893. 

The  gannets  are  here  again.  Either  they  are  on 
their  way  from  equatorial  regions,  or  they  have  taken 
a  day  trip  from  their  nests  in  the  Hebrides.  To- 
night they  will  go  back, '  the  bould  imp'rint  craythurs  ' ! 
They  are  now,  however,  *  divin'  like  the  divil,'  and 
very  splendid  they  look.  Hugh  sits  with  me,  and  looks 
out  critically:  he  talks  of  albatrosses,  Cape-hens, 
'and  sich.'  Isn't  it  horrible  that  the  experience  of 
the  '  Ancient  Mariner '  is  quite  thrown  away  upon 
our  youth?  They  fish  for  the  birds,  exult  in  their 
uncouth  attempts  to  walk  on  deck,  insult  them,  crucify 
them,  and  hang  them  up  (like  St.  Peter  ?)  with  the 
head  downwards.  This  means  slow  death  by  deter- 
mination of  blood  to  the  head.  Why  they  choose 
this  miserable  form  of  death  rather  than  an  honest 
crack  over  the  skull  I  can  hardly  say,  but  probably 
in  order  to  keep  the  head  intact  for  stuffing  purposes. 
And  the  '  ice-fiend  '  does  nothing  to  these  insensate 
pigs,  except  bring  them  home  grunting  and  grum- 
bling  The  other  day  Hugh  and  I  went  up  Glen 

Aldhyn,  and  picked  many  primroses,  also  one  blue- 
bell. It  must  be  very  delightful  to  him  handling 
these  tender  things  after  spun-yarn  and  canvas. 
I  should  say  the  great  plant  here  is  the  wild  honey- 
suckle. It  is  not  in  flower  yet,  of  course;  but  its 
foliage  is  the  prettiest  and  most  engaging  of  any. 

A  few  days  ago  I  had  a  great  mind  to  bathe ;  why 
shouldn't  one?  Both  air  and  water  were  magnifi- 


1 82  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

cently  warm ;  I  feel  certain  that  it  would  have  done 
me  good.  The  bay  a  bath  of  liquid  silver,  smooth 
as  glass  —  why  on  earth  refrain  ?  I  grant  you 
to-day  is  for  the  gannets ;  but  we  are  far  too  smug 
for  noble  ventures.  All  Ramsey  would  cry  out  upon 
me  if  I  *  sthripped.'  But  I'll  not  wait  till  June — 
blow'd  if  I  do. 

Ah,  Dakyns,  '  good  sowl ! '  I  can't  come  to  you. 
I  would  give  my  eyes  to  do  so ;  but  it  may  not  be ; 
it  cannot  be.  Won't  you  come  and  see  me  ? 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

April  21,  1893. 

Your  kindness  is  overwhelming.  But  what 
dreadful  stuff  the  book  contains !  Not  that  I  agree 
with  the  general  run  of  my  critics,  who  are  favour- 
able, but  make  the  most  ludicrous  blunders.  Surely 
it  is  ridiculous  for  the  Speaker  to  say  that  '  all  the 
long  poems  are  unsuccessful  except  the  "  Epistola  ad 
Dakyns.'"  That  is  really  preposterous.  But  the 
inequality — there  of  course  do  manus.  Mixed  pickles ! 
mixed  pickles ! 

Here  cauliflowers  salute  the  various  ken, 
And  there  the  pungent  pods  of  far  Cayenne, 
With  embryo  walnuts,  gherkins  at  the  breast, 
And  the  squab  onion  soothes  the  humbler  taste. 

A  liter. 

For  here  are  cauliflowers  of  crispy  severance, 
And  pods  of  far  Cayenne  to  warm  his  Reverence, 
Walnuts  and  gherkins;  and  lest  C.  P.1  grumble, 
Onions  to  soothe  a  taste  legitimate  though  humble. 

1  PI.    interpp.   referunt  ad   Paedagogum  quendam   eius  aevi,  ex 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  183 

Tarver  is  here,  four  miles  off.  We  see  a  good  deal 
of  him. 

I  am  planning  another  blank  verse  story.  I  think 
'  Bella  Gorry '  was  rather  good,  and  this  will  be  by 
'  the  Pazon,1  as  was  '  Bella.'  Indeed  I  have  the  eggs  of 
two  '  Pazon's '  stories,  which  I  may  reasonably  hope 
to  hatch  in  due  time. 

Poor  Symonds !  how  much  I  think  of  him ! 


To  MRS.  SHENSTONE. 

RAMSEY, 

April  16,  1893. 

The  other  day  I  met  an  old  friend  and  pupil,  and 
we  had  a  long  ramble  about  the  parish  of  which  my 
father  and  his  were  successively  vicars.  Sunshine  and 
for  the  most  part  silence,  but  occasional  outbursts  of 
delightful  recognition  from  those  faithfullest  of  friends, 
the  poor.  How  sweet  it  was  !  And  then  we  went  to 
the  house  of  his  aunts,  two  absolutely  perfect  old  maids, 
living  where  they  have  always  lived.  It  was  an  old 
haunt  of  mine  when  a  child.  There  it  is,  exactly  what 
it  was !  The  old  corner  cupboards,  deep,  inscrut- 
able, from  whose  recesses  it  was  no  hopeless  specula- 
tion in  those  times  to  anticipate  cakes  of  all  sorts. 
Nor  do  they  frustrate  one's  anticipations  now.  And 
outside  struts  the  lineal  descendant  of  a  turkey-cock 
who  used  to  frighten  the  life  out  of  a  trouserless 

stirpe  Wilsoniorum  ;  ubi  percipiat  quivis  latere  paronomasiam  (C.  P. 
qu.  d.  Caepe).  Inepte  alium  Wilsonium,  olim  praefectum  collegii 
apud  Cliftonienses,  effodiunt  Heynius  et  caet. — T.  E.  B. 


184  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

urchin.  The  old  old  life — the  dear  old  things  well  on 
to  eighty,  beautiful  to  behold,  and  quite  wild  with  joy. 
And  we  told  old  stories,  and  did  our  best  to  make  up 
for  a  good  thirty  years  of  interrupted  converse,  but 
did  not  get  beyond  the  merest  lip-rim  of  the  full  cup. 
And  there  sat  a  boy,  now  quite  seventy.  He  used  to 
be  thought  half-witted,  but  he  claimed  his  share  in  this 
orgy,  and  proved  himself  a  person  of  far-reaching 
memory  and  subtle  wit.  His  sisters  evidently  looked 
upon  him  as  inspired. 

To  Miss  D.  BROWN. 

RAMSEY, 

April  23,  1893. 

An  excellent  letter,  and  very  welcome !  It  is  very 
pleasant  to  hear  that  you  are  so  happy,  and  if  you 
can  give  a  little  happiness  to  others,  it's  not  amiss, 
is  it? 

I  must  say  I  rather  envy  you  that  week  in  Somerset. 
Never  was  there  such  a  spring.  But  what  must  it 
be  in  the  valley  of  the  Tone,  and  under  the  Quantocks ! 
Even  here  apple,  pear,  and  plum-trees  are  making 
a  goodly  show,  and  a  certain  wild  cherry  sets  the 
heart  a-dancing.  Then  the  grass — why,  that  alone  is 
a  perfect  lap  of  '  lugszury.'  Indeed  the  Island  blooms 
like  a  rose.  Primroses  make  no  secret  of  it  now — 
they  are  everywhere,  and  begin  to  bring  with  them 
young  blue-bells,  '  ter*ble  shoy,'  but  they'll  soon  get 
over  that.  I  went  up  Sulby  Glen  a  bit  the  other  day : 
the  gorse  there,  as  elsewhere,  is  a  mass  of  golden 
flame  ;  and  I  heard  the  cuckoo.  .  .  . 


i893J          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  185 


To  Miss  E.  BROWN. 

RAMSEY, 

April  23,  1893. 

Behold  me  !  rather  tired,  but  jolly  enough,  just  the 
excuse  required  for  not  going  to  church,  or,  indeed, 
anywhere  this  glorious  morning.  Tarver  and  I  walked 
yesterday  for  some  seven  hours.  We  went  to  Balla- 
glass  and  found  it  a  '  mash '  of  primroses,  with  just 
a  sprinkling  of  timid  little  blue-bells. 

Tarver  about  the  Isle  of  Man  is  excellent.  He  is  no 
doubt  a  most  subtle  person,  and  knows  precisely  what 
I  want  him  to  feel ;  but  I  really  think  he  has  the  root 
of  the  matter  in  him.  Fancy  his  going  in  for  the 
Curraghs  with  all  his  heart  and  soul !  The  Curraghs, 
mind  ye  !  think  of  that !  '  and  him  a  sthraanger  .  .  . 
what  ?  And  knickerbockers  arrim !  and  belts  all 
flyin'  about  his  jacket — eh  ?  A  Norfolk  jacket  they're 
callin'  it  ?— aye,  aye !  you'll  get  lave  though  !  you'll 
get  lave ! ' 

Cambridge  must  be  lovely  to  look  at ;  but  I  suppose 
you  have  not  yet  had  opportunities  for  making  the 
nearer  acquaintance  of  the  bounteous  English  spring. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

April  26,  1893. 

The  Island  is  simply  glorious  this  marvellous 
weather,  the  spring  riotous,  tumultuous,  unparalleled. 
But  I  often  think  of  Haslemere  and  of  its  precious 
pledges.  How  lovely  too  it  must  be  just  now  !  .  .  . 


1 86  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN 


There !  Borne  upon  '  viewless  wings '  the  refrain 
of  your  piano.  M.'s  gentle  yet  unerring  touch, 
or  Mrs.  L.'s  seraphic  sweep.  Alas !  I  want  that 
desperately.  These  days  of  '  light  and  gladness '  are 
so  suggestive.  But '  they'll  get  lave.' 

Ballaglass  is  delicious  in  the  sunlight  with  the 
beechen  spray  breathing  over  it.  Also  its  primroses 
are  good,  also  its  blue-bells.  As  yet  the  blue-bells 
are  hesitant,  or  apologetic.  Of  course  you  know  that 
later  on  they  will  attend  the  funeral  of  the  primroses 
with  a  mighty  mourning  of  hyacinthine  blooms ;  and 
then  they  will  become  quite  cheeky  and  truculent, 
and  make  the  ground  their  own.  But  now  the 
Curragh  is  in  its  absolute  perfection. 

I  had  a  solitary  ramble  which  lasted  all  day  yesterday 
in  Ballaugh  Curragh.  The  bog-bean  is  everywhere 
and  in  extraordinary  form.  Do  you  know  it  ?  One 
of  the  loveliest,  I  think,  of  marsh  plants.  It  insists 
upon  growing  right  in  the  water.  And  the  water 
is  so  still,  and  therefore  so  clear.  All  bog,  observe, 
black,  tremendous  bog,  i.e.  the  bottom  ;  but  what  with 
reed  and  rush  and  flower,  the  Curragh,  the  combina- 
tion of  land  and  water,  the  inextricable  labyrinthine 
twining  of  the  two  elements,  is  a  thing  marvellous  to 
see,  to  smell,  and  indeed  to  hear.  For  the  cuckoos 
were  innumerable,  and  corn-crakes  scraped  their 
rasping  celli  with  unwearied  vigour.  Then  the  feel 
of  the  air — I  have  tried  to  indicate  it  in  *  Tommy  Big 
Eyes' — the  tactual  effect  of  it  on  a  skin  dry  and 
chapped  with  sea-salt,  drawing  the  acrid  crystals 
from  the  epiderm,  soothing,  filling  up,  *  making  good 
repairs,'  caulking,  renovating. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  187 

I  wrote  to  you  about  Symonds  in  rather  slipshod 
fashion,  yet  I  can't  say  I  regret  it.  No  doubt  there 
are  two  points  of  view  ;  and  from  one  there  would  be 
demanded  a  much  more  critical  and  discriminant 
estimate  than  from  the  other — in  fact,  an  estimate, 
Well,  that  is  what  I  didn't  care  for,  or  intend.  It  will 
be  made,  I  do  not  doubt,  and  by  an  abler  hand  than 
mine. 

'  By  Shelley ' — well,  one  expected  that.  How  it 
would  have  thrilled  him !  The  Walt  Whitman  I  will 
gratefully  accept  ex  donis  tm's.  Am  I  becoming 
a  sturdy  mendicant  ?  The  old  institution  of  Patrons 
has  ceased ;  but  I  seem  to  be  reviving  it  in  you !  The 
dedication  and  the  doucezir  f  I  did  not  think  of  this 
when  I  inscribed  my  book  to  you  and  M. ;  had  I  done 
so,  you  would  have  been  in  for  a  phisquam  Drydenian 
altar,  smoking  with  seventeenth-century  incense.  Love 
to  all. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

May  n,  1893. 

Pat's J  sniff  is  lovely — '  as  unknown  to  the  modern 
world  as  if  it  had  been  a  classic.'  Good ! !  good ! !  very 
good ! ! ! !  I  shall  applaud  that  when  I  lie  down  to- 
night, I  shall  resume  my  applause  when  the  shades 

of But  heaven  help  me !  isn't  this  a  very  near 

approach  to  something  that  Mr.  Pecksniff  said  to 
Mrs.  Todgers  ?  I  am  losing  my  sense  of  proportion, 
indeed  that  of  property.  Of  propriety  the  perception 
has  long  ago  forsaken  my  ethics. 

1  Mark  Pattison. 


i88  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

That  W.  W.  F.1  will  make  a  perfect  monograph  on 
White  of  Selborne  I'll  lay  you  very  heavy  odds. 
He  is  just  the  man.  Macmillan  has  lucid  intervals ! ! 

Wilson  writes  of  my  verses  on  '  Clifton ' :  ' "  Clifton  " 
is  just  what  I  have  felt  both  for  you,  and  in  a  less 
degree  for  myself.' 

You  can't  think  how  I  enjoy  what  you  say  about  S. 
You  cannot  conceive,  sir,  what  a  charming  figure  you 
make !  I  borrow  our  favourite  old  phrase  with  change 
of  epithet.  I  mean  that  you  have  quite  unconsciously 
given  me  a  picture  of  a  very  rare  and  exquisite  bit 
of  contemporary  life,  such  as  is  indeed  suggested  by 
your  own, 4  an  ingenious  young  gentleman  of  Cam- 
bridge.' 

To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

May  14,   1893. 

I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  the  Whitman.  I  read 
it  through  immediately,  and  with  great  interest.  More- 
over, I  have  been  thinking  ever  since  of  writing 
a  notice  of  some  sort  for  the  Nat.  Observer.  But 
whether  to  write  ostensibly  of  Whitman  or  of  Symonds 
I  am  in  doubt. 

My  feeling  is  that  the  death  of  a  man  like  Symonds 
is  an  event  in  the  history  of  literature  which  ought 
not  to  pass  without  notice.  So  I  believe  I  shall  try. 

I  discovered  a  MS.  of  B.'s  the  other  day.  It  is 
a  story  (prose)  not  finished,  but  not  at  all  bad; 
the  style,  a  really  very  good  Marryatt  sort  of  style. 
I  think  it  is  promising,  and  I  told  him  so. 

1  W.  Warde  Fowler. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  189 

There  is  a  strong  twist  of  the  vovs  TTPCLKTIKOS  in  it,  an 
absence  of  romantic  colour,  a  touch  of  Defoe ;  not 
much  humour,  exceedingly  clear  vision  of  outside 
things,  e.g.  boat  ropes,  handling  of  the  same,  quite 
photographic.  Altogether  stuff  worth  examining,  and 
decidedly  interesting,  with  a  grave  sort  of  entrain 
that  gets  hold  of  you. 

I  often  have  dreams  and  longings  Haslemere-ward. 
The  height  of  your  place  fascinates  me,  that  great 
extent  of  distant  plain.  It  is  a  dream,  is  it  not  ? 
What  long  shoots  of  speculation  you  must  have  at 
times  when  you  are  quiet  enough  !  There  is  a  pathos 
in  a  great  distance,  and  a  tenderness  supervenes, 
or  subvenes,  when  the  distance  is  well  and  subtly 
filled. 

The  gannets  are  now  returned  in  full  force.  I  see 
the  plunges,  and  hear  the  thitd  a  few  seconds  after. 
It  is  electric,  and  beyond  measure  vital,  and  vitalizing. 
To-morrow,  challenged  by  these  '  divils,'  I  am  going 
to  begin  my  own  aquatics  ;  quod  faustnm  / 

Hall  Caine  is  writing  his  new  novel ;  destined, 
as  I  think,  to  be  the  very  utmost  Schwung  of  his 
tether. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

BALDRINE,  LONAN,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 
May  21,  1893. 

I  have  come  here  to  the  house  of  my  brother-in-law 
for  a  week.  Ramsey  is  occupied  by  three  regiments 
of  volunteers  from  the  adjacent  isle. 

I  walked  over  the  mountains  yesterday,  and  finished 


i9o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

in  a  labyrinth  of  lovely  glens,  imperfectly  known  by 
me.  The  sweetest  of  solitudes,  each  one.  It  is  so 
delicious  to  pore  over  a  country  like  this,  and  draw 
out  the  very  soul  of  it.  As  I  descended  I  caught 
sight  of  three  great  steamers  advancing  towards  the 
coast.  I  laughed  and  rejoiced  greatly. 

I  have  just  stumbled  upon  a  curious  literary  pro- 
blem. In  a  little  biography  of  a  member  of  my 
family  who  died  ages  ago  I  find  that  this  'amiable 
and  pious  young  man  '  derived  great  benefit  from 
a  book  entitled  Morning  Thoitghts  on  the  Gospel 
according  to  St.  Matthew*  by  Mr.  Cunningham,  of 
Harrow.  Now  Mr.  Cunningham,  as,  no  doubt,  you 
are  aware,  was  an  eminent  Evangelical,  whose  name 
goes  with  those  of  Venn,  Simeon,  Newton,  and  so 
forth.  The  book  is  partly  in  prose  and  partly  in 
verse,  and  no  other  name  but  that  of  Cunningham 
appears  upon  the  title-page.  But  the  critics  of  the 
day  (so  the  little  biography  says)  attributed  the  verse 
to  Tom  Moore.  This  is  extremely  odd.  I  have  no 
life  of  Moore,  so  can't  go  into  the  matter  exhaus- 
tively. The  Cunningham  book  was  published  in 
1824,  and,  just  at  that  time,  as  we  know  from  ordi- 
nary sources,  cyclopaedias,  &c.,  Tom  was  in  diffi- 
culties through  the  dishonesty  of  his  representatives 
in  Bermuda.  Consequently  he  may  have  been  hard 
up  and  glad  to  get  a  job.  The  critics  based  their 
opinion  upon  internal  evidence,  and,  if  they  were 
right,  the  situation  is  almost  painfully  comic — Tom 
Moore  as  Evangelical  bard !  A  specimen  is  given  in 
the  biography.  It  is  anapaestic,  after  the  manner  of 
4  O  believe  me,  with  all  those  endearing  young 


LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  191 

charms.'  Dactylic,  if  you  like ;  and  the  dear  little 
cupid  of  a  man  gambols  away  quite  cheerfully,  and 
is  full  of  a  rose-buddy  sort  of  edification,  which  is 
really  quite  winning. 

Is  it  not  probable  that  some  aspiring  muse  in  the 
Evangelical  camp  was  caught  by  the  illecebrae  of 
the  great  Little,  and  resolved  that  the  devil  should 
not  have  all  the  good  metres,  as  Charles  Wesley 
refused  to  leave  him  all  the  good  tunes  ?  Howrever 
this  may  be,  Cupid  as  Seraph,  rose-bud  as  rue,  it  is 
inconceivably  rum.  I  observe  that  in  my  father's 
volume  of  verses,  Scott  is  similarly  pressed  into  the 
service  of  the — well,  let  us  say — British  and  Foreign 
Bible  Society.  By-the-bye,  one  must  not  forget  that 
Tom  Moore  did  write  '  Sound  the  loud  Timbrel,' 
may  the  gods  forgive  him ! 

You  will  gather  that  I  am  much  improved  in  health. 
My  walk  yesterday  was  a  good  twelve  miles  across 
mountains.  I  plucked  some  bell  heather  nicely  in 
flower  ;  very  early,  is  it  not  ?  Most  exquisitely  lovely 
the  walk  was !  Not  a  soul  for  four  hours  ;  then  con- 
verse with  a  good  old  soul,  who  was  preparing  a 
field  for  planting :  the  happy  agricola  who,  having 
sailed  all  over  the  world,  really  does  know  '  his  own 
goods.'  We  talked  of  the  past,  the  Island  past,  so 
simple  of  analysis  for  both  of  us.  The  succession 
of  farmers,  the  succession  of  parsons,  till  we 
got  back  to  '  that's  the  man  that  christened  me.' 
Then  we  stopped  and  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes.  The  cuckoo  called,  and  down  the  vale  I  went 
with  no  vacillating  step.  These  things  strengthen 
one. 


i92  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

I  found  a  foxglove  fairly  out :  that,  too,  was  early. 
The  mountains  had  the  midsummer  smell — a  wonderful 
concoction  ;  the  glens  perplexed  me  with  an  even 
more  subtle  aroma.  Upon  smells  it  is  hard  to  reflect, 
so  that  I  have  not  yet  determined  what  it  was.  The 
glens  were  very  full  of  blue-bells,  and  the  flower  of 
the  mountain-ash,  but  I  don't  think  I  have  got  it ; 
no.  Some  divine  footsteps — what  ?  Ah,  sweet  thing ! 
was  it  you  ?  In  such  valleys  the  sons  of  God  might 
not  unfitly  wander,  and  find  not  a  few  daughters  of 
men  meet  for  the  ineffable  embrace.  At  any  rate, 
heaven  itself  walked  down  the  valley  and  lingered 
there, '  and  deludhed  me  ter'ble.' 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

BALDRINE,  LONAN,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 

May  21,  1893. 

I  have  come  here  for  a  week.  Ramsey  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  Philistines.  Three  corps  of  Lancashire 
and  Cheshire  Volunteers  have  encamped  there.  This 
is  my  brother-in-law's.  It  is  a  delicious  quiet  place — 
much  rest  for  the  sole  of  my  feet. 

I  came  over  the  mountains  yesterday — walking,  of 
course.  First,  the  slope  of  North  Barrule,  very  long 
pull,  keeping  above  Glen  Aldhyn  on  its  south  side. 
Then  the  heart  of  Snaefell,  and  the  valley  opening 
down  to  Laxey — all  my  Manx  Witch  business.  Then 
glen  after  glen,  as  I  descended  to  Baldrine,  which 
lies  just  over  Lerwick,  at  the  west  end  of  Laxey  Bay. 
Such  lovely  glens !  they  smelt  of  heaven  ;  so  indeed 
did  the  mountains,  and  even  more  so,  i.  e.  if  heaven's 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  193 

smells  are  more  ethereal  than  those  of  earth.  But 
the  glen  smell  suited  me  perfectly.  It  was  not  so 
simple  as  the  heavenly  smell.  Henna  is  more  chro- 
matic than  Olympus.  And  yet  awfully  mysterious — 
this  glen  smell.  It  is  so  hard  to  reflect  upon  smells 
that  I  can't  even  yet  make  it  out. 

It  was  not  the  blue-bells,  innumerable  as  they  were. 
Was  it  Proserpine,  with  a  stealthy  suffluvium  of  Dis  ? 
I  really  do  think  it  was  a  bodily  presence,  an  aromatic 
person.  However,  I  greatly  rejoiced  at  it.  I  hadn't 
gone  far  until  the  highest  power  which  I  ever  gain 
swooped  down  upon  me.  I  mean  the  power  of  suck- 
ing out  from  the  country  its  very  inmost  soul,  and 
making  it  stand  before  me  and  smile  and  speak. 
What  an  ecstasy  that  is!  I  know  you  know  it. 

Gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O; 
And  warly  cares,  and  warly  men, 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O ! 

Well,  that  is  my  dearie. 

O  Cuckoo!   shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice? 

A  bird  !  a  bird  !  a  thousand  birds  !  good  Mr.  Words- 
worth. How  they  did  sing  yesterday!  But  no 
doubt  the  finest  cuckoo  business  is  just  after  dawn : 
when  you  are  lying  snug  in  bed.  This  was  my  posi- 
tion to-day.  I  had  had  but  a  poor  night,  and  the 
cuckoo  began.  I  turned  over  on  my  left  side,  and 
with  the  cuckoo's  note,  like  the  soft  croon  of  some 
old  nurse  in  my  ear,  I  wandered  away  into  dream- 
land. And  such  an  odd  dream. 

I  N 


i94  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

May  28,  1893. 

A  word  about  S.'s  essay — don't  you  find  it  obscure  ? 
I  get  glimpses  here  and  there  that  make  me  less 
forlorn  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  *  forlorn '  is  the  word  that 
expresses  my  condition  vis-a-vis  of  this  youthful 
prophet.  The  style  is  not  at  all  bad,  too  terse,  per- 
haps, considering  the  subject,  but  I  should  say,  as 
a  style,  marked  and  distinctive.  But  it  does  not  make 
plain  the  thought.  Don't  you  fancy  he  has  found  the 
subject  rather  too  many  for  him  ?  There  is  an  obvious 
way  of  treating  it  which,  of  course,  he  would  scorn. 

His  slap  in  the  face  of  Ste.  Beuve  I  like  well  enough, 
but  it  is  not  perhaps  an  overmodest  thing  to  do. 
On  Salammbo  he  is  really  very  good.  His  notion  of 
Flaubert's  wanting  *  to  get  away '  is  suggestive,  want- 
ing to  '  bathe  in  strange  delights  and  contemplate 
monstrosities  that  come  from  an  unknown  quarter.' 
'  The  vision  of  this  strange  people  ' — that's  nice.  His 
notion  of  observing  where  authors  '  show  their  weak- 
ness' is  na'if  and  amusing;  and  again  his  cautions 
and  reserves,  as  '  this  would  be  a  misleading  state- 
ment,' and  so  on.  Don't  you  think  a  course  of  Oxford 
would  have  done  him  good  ?  It  seems  to  me  quite 
certain  that  we  benefit  both  positively  and  negatively 
by  enforced  study  of  Greek  Philosophy,  but  even 
more  by  the  study  of  Greek  expression.  It  is  no 
mere  fancy  that  S.  would  have  written  a  better  essay 
if  he  had  read  the  Poetics,  nor  would  he  have  reason 
to  regret  careful  study  of  the  Ethics.  Ah,  sir,  that 
Greek  stuff  penetrates  / 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  195 

To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

RAMSEY, 

June  i,   1893. 

The  other  day  I  was  coming  over  the  mountains 
from  Laxey,  and  descended  Sulby  Glen.  We  missed 
a  train,  of  course,  and  had  tea  at .  It  was  a  mag- 
nificent tea.  The  piano  was  open  ;  on  its  desk  lay 
Hymns  (I  think)  Ancient  and  Modern. 

I  played,  and  made  an  infernal  row.  Played,  then 
paid,  and  left.  Immediately  a  tripping  step  behind 
us :  we  turn :  '  If  you  please,  mamma  won't  take  any- 
thing for  the  tea,  and  hopes  you  will  accept  it.'  Mon 
Dieu  / 

Well,  we  were  all  in  a  twitter  of  delightful  confusion, 
and  the  remission  of  this  small  debt  evoked  a  gratitude 
which  Irish  tenants  might  very  properly  emulate  when 
let  off  some  two-thirds  of  their  rent.  There,  sir,  in 
the  dusty  road,  and  in  the  presence  of  '  natur's  silent 
sympathetic  witnesses,'  under  the  bright  sunlight, 
praesentibus  three  children,  a  cock,  and  a  pig,  were 
laid  the  foundations  of  what  promises  to  be  a  life-long 
friendship.  .  .  .  Sir,  it  is  not  every  day  that  we  attain 
to  this  level  of  emotion. 

And  so  from  Sulby  to  Mascagni.  I  have  not  heard 
his  operas  :  but  I  have  both  heard  and  played  selec- 
tions from  the  Cavalleria.  There  has  been  a  good 
deal  of  exaggeration  about  him.  Mozart  need  not 
fear  for  his  imperishable  laurels ;  nor  indeed  is  Verdi 
to  be  relegated  to  a  back  seat  for  the  aggrandizement 
of  this  young  baker's  apprentice — wasn't  he  some- 
thing of  that  sort  ? 

N  2 


196          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

I  stick  to  '  but  first  the  stable,'  but  not  to  *  that 
can't  abide  the  lower  classes1.'  Throughout  the 
poems  it  seems  evident  to  me  that  the  wicked  way 
of  looking  at  the  Puritanical  dodges  is  supposed  to 
be  repressed  with  difficulty.  The  sincerest  love  and 
respect  for  my  dear  old  friend  will  not  make  this 
otherwise.  It  will  otit.  You  plunge  into  all  the  hot 
steaming  medium  of  the  old  man's  exercitations  :  you 
sympathize,  you  embrace,  but  you  really  must  laugh. 
4  Don't  be  angry  with  me ! '  I  am  no  Puritan,  and,  by 
the  process  of  the  poem,  am  not  supposed  to  be. 
The  objection  to  '  that  can't  abide  '  is  that,  though  it 
enters  as  a  quotation  from  a  snobbish  idiot  supposed, 
still  it  is  not  likely  that  any  snob  or  any  idiot  would 
say  anything  so  inept.  I  am  not  sure,  though  ! 

Do  you  know  Labiche  ?  His  vaudevilles  and  short 
comedies  are  simply  innumerable.  They  are  also  very 
amusing.  Probability,  possibility  almost,  are  set  at 
defiance.  But  from  the  farcical  they  are  saved  by  the 
innate  delicacy,  slightness,  if  you  will,  of  the  French- 
man. I  think  it  must  be  very  pleasant  to  be  with 
a  French  audience  at  one  of  these  plays.  One  wants 
ethereal  people  about  one,  people  who  don't  care  a 
screw  for  anything  but  fun  and  nonsense ;  champagny 
people,  if  you  can  have  champagne,  if  not,  lemonady 
people,  gassy,  sparkling — I  don't  mind  honest  pop 
for  that  matter.  Peppermint  lozenges  too  are  good, 
and  the  frequent  orange  has  a  staying  effect  like  the 
apples  of  the  '  Song  of  Songs  which  is  Solomon's.' 
I  would  give  much  to  hear  the  Fra^ais  Company  in 

1  A  reference  to  his  poem  called  '  Old  John '  in  the  volume  with 
that  name. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  197 

London.  But  even  in  Paris  this  would  not  quite 
satisfy  me.  I  want  to  be  about  thirty-five  years 
younger,  and  to  sit  in  a  ludicrously  fifth-rate  theatre 
with  Jules  and  his  beloved,  and  exchange  with  some 
gentle  good  creature  or  another  glances  of  mild  and 
melancholy  hallucination,  the  poor,  starved,  hopeless 
o-q/xeta  that  are  born  in  vactio,  and  lead  to  nothing. 
Good-bye !  Take  care  of  yourself. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

June  8,  1893. 

Come  as  soon  as  you  can.  It  is  a  perilous  beauty 
this,  and  who  can  say  how  long  it  will  last  ?  I  have 
been  bathing  for  a  fortnight — once  every  day,  about 
1 1  a.m.  I  would  fain  bathe  oftener,  or  rather,  never 
be  out  of  the  water  at  all.  To-morrow  I  begin  bathing 
before  breakfast.  I  am  getting  much  stronger.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  sort  of  smouldering  splendour  this  evening, 
the  sea  like  glass.  Heather  is  beginning  to  be  con- 
spicuous. Foxgloves  are  big  and  strong.  Honey- 
suckle could  do  with  some  rain,  but  it  is  abundant. 
I  have  been  stopped  in  Glen  Aldhyn,  but  persisted  in 
going  on  :  threatened  with  a  summons,  I  wait  events ! 
...  A  few  little  pomes  have  occurred  to  me,  but  I  have 
not  yet  felt  moved  to  tackle  the  bigger  things. 

I  read  a  good  deal  now.  Aristophanes  has  got 
hold  of  me.  I  am  reading  the  Birds.  It  is  simply 
a  portent  of  vigour  and  health.  I  had  never  realized 
it  before.  That  tremendous  parabasis,  "Aye  t>r\ 
&c.,  has  made  me  all  tremble ! 


198          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          j>893 
To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

June  27,  1893. 

I  send  you  an  English  Illustrated  Magazine  for 
July.  It  contains  a  small  trifle  of  mine,  but,  much  more 
important,  you  will  fin  therein  '  Mrs.  O'Donnell's 
Report,'  by  the  Hon.  Emily  Lawless.  Tell  me 
what  you  think  of  it.  Surely  it  is  delicious.  What 
an  admirable  person  this  Miss  Lawless  must  be  !  One 
or  two  of  the  pictures  strike  me  as  excellent.  The 
kind  of  changeling  look  on  the  face  of  the  young 
Carrowmore,  who  is  not  a  Carrowmore,  really  haunts 
me. 

I  have  the  Cliftonian.  The  review  is  doubtless  by 
a  hand  I  recognize.  It  is  extremely  kind. 

You  pick  out  '  the  honey-tongued  quintessence  of 
July.'  I  am  so  glad;  that  was  the  poem  I  had  the 
row  about.  I  still  think  that  the  phrase  would  redeem 
a  worse  copy,  and  evidently  you  agree  with  me. 
After  all,  what  is  much  of  our  verse-making  but  the 
hunt  for  phrases  ?  I  don't  mind  owning  that  I  have 
many  a  time  constructed  a  whole  system  of  little  more 
than  bosh  to  enshrine  a  locittion  /  Faith  !  one  might 
do  worse.  Again,  thanks  a  thousand  times  for  your 
review. 

Your  quotation  from  the  Orestes  reminds  me  of  my 
Euripides.  I  have  read  a  good  deal  of  him  lately. 
He  really  is  very  great ;  surely  the  Medea  would 
justify  Milton's  liking  for  him.  But  for  several  days 
I  Ve  been  off  my  dramatic  feed,  and  have  been  browsing 
in  the  Odyssey.  It  reads  so  like  a  lovely  comedy ; 
sometimes  the  cloven  heel  of  the  satyr  peeps  out.  He 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  199 

must  have  often  excited  laughter,  though,  I  dare  say, 
a  great  deal  would  depend  on  the  rhapsodist. 

Well,  and  so  you  have  had  the  Guthrie1.  What 
a  comfort  to  have  it  behind  you  !  And  now  July  is 
close  at  hand,  and  you  are  beginning  to  arrange  about 
holidays.  Do  try  and  come  here !  I  am  most  anxious 
to  see  you,  and  we  can  make  you  comfortable,  '  mind 
ye  that ! '  True,  our  dream  of  glory  has  fled ;  the 
wind  is  sweeping,  and  the  rain  driving.  But  it  will 
be  all  right  again,  and  our  August  and  September  are 
often  delightful.  Heed  not  for  trippers !  I  can 
guarantee  you  against  these  abominations.  I  know 
several '  banks  whereon  the  wild '  tripper  grows  not. 
In  fact  this  defensive  sort  of  knowledge  is  my  special 
gift.  You  shall  go  for  days  and  meet  no  tripper. 
This  is  effected  only  by  very  subtle  evasions,  but  they 
are  infallible,  also  in  me  functional  and  inevitable. 

This  dreadful  Victoria  business  gives  us  pause. 
What  on  earth  is  to  be  the  next  move  in  naval 
architecture?  One  can  see  by  certain  indications, 
almost  unconsciously  given,  what  a  noble  fellow 
Admiral  Tryon  was,  evidently  an  awful  loss.  Fancy 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  that  '  turning  turtle.'  One 
big  coffin !  It  makes  one  shudder ! 

Hugh  is  still  with  me.  I  like  to  keep  him  as  long 
as  I  can.  Dora  is  in  the  New  Forest,  a  scene  which, 
methinks,  must  become  her.  Kindest  regards  to  Miss 
Irwin  and  your  sister,  also  to  your  brother  Guy  when 
next  you  write  to  him. 

He  has  an  eye 
That  brother  Guy! 

1  Commemoration  Day  at  Clifton  College. 


200          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [iS93 
To  MRS.  SHENSTONE. 

RAMSEY, 

June  30,  1893. 

The  last  day  of  a  lovely  June,  and  the  roses  are 
dying  and  the  days  shortening;  and  your  Commemora- 
tion is  over  and  all  delights,  I  mean  ethereal  delights, 
have  faded.  The  substantial  joys  of  the  ripening  year 
are  yet  to  come.  But  I  can't  think  of  them;  my 
heart  is  with  the  roses.  .  .  . 

We  have  a  good  many  people  here  already.  They 
seem  nice  and  quiet ;  but  they  alarm  me  by  their 
shrewdness  and  knowledge  of  the  place.  Nay,  they 
irritate  me ;  for  the  other  day  when  I  went  in  pursuit 
of  blaeberries  on  the  mountains,  and  even  com- 
promised myself  in  the  most  fatal  manner  by  taking  a 
largish  basket — behold  a  family  of  some  seven  or  eight 
right  on  in  front  of  me  triumphantly  making  a  clean 
sweep  where  I  would  have  sworn  no  one  but  myself 
could  imagine  the  existence  of  blaeberries.  Oh! 
it  was  mortifying.  Perhaps  they  were  aware  of  me 
and  my  poor  hopes,  perhaps  not !  I  was  so  angry 
that  I  got  into  a  row  with  a  native  who  presumed  to 
direct  me  on  the  way.  He  little  knew  the  cause  of 
my  churlishness.  A  bear  robbed  of  her  young  is 
nothing  to  a  blaeberry-picker  cheated  of  his  blae- 
berries. And,  remember,  that  to  make  sure  of  an 
absolutely  solitary  control  and  prime -seisin  of  blae- 
berries, I  shall  have  to  go  to  a  mountain  twelve  miles 
off,  which  is  a  blaeberry  mountain  proper,  and 
has  its  name  from  that  fact — '  Slieu  ny  Fraghane,' 
Mountain  of  the  Blaeberries.  How  I  should  like  to  hear 
and  see  you  trying  to  pronounce  the  Keltic  syllables ! 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          201 

You  do  not  say  how  the  story  goes  on?  And 
a  drama,  or  a  dramatized  form  of  the  same  story? 
Why  don't  they  come  ?  I  have  magnificent  leisure 
and  a  large  appetite,  which,  sooth  to  say,  I  '  bear 
in  hand '  with  the  Odyssey  and  Boccaccio.  By-the- 
bye  the  idea  grows  upon  me  that  the  Odyssey  is 
a  comedy,  in  fact,  almost  a  burlesque  of  the  Iliad, 
not  a  vulgar  burlesque.  The  Greek  mind  could 
never  have  descended  to  that.  But  '  there's  odds 
o' "  burlesques  "  ' ;  and  I  *  whiles '  get  glimpses  of  quite 
a  celestial  travesty,  which  I  suspect  is  the  Odyssey. 
Undoubtedly  it  is  full  of  laughter.  Ariosto  best 
helps  us  to  understand  this,  though  I  believe  there 
is  more  of  genuine  comic  vein  in  the  Odyssey.  You 
read  Italian.  I  have  a  great  desire  to  write  short 
stories,  but  have  no  power.  Couldn't  you  write  some 
for  me  ?  The  Italians  are  the  veritable  masters  in 
this  kind.  Boccaccio  almost  strings  me  up  for  the 
effort,  but  the  fact  that  he  does  not  altogether  is 
a  proof  that  it  is  not  in  me.  I  fancy  it  is  in  you. 
Write  six  or  twelve.  For  longer  and  more  splendid 
comedy  I  would  read  Ariosto.  Considering  the 
dimensions  of  his  stories,  it  is  astounding  how  he  can 
sit  so  lightly ;  the  dainty  way  in  which  he  hovers 
over  the  subject  and  keeps  aloof  in  a  disdainful  facility 
of  treatment  is  wholly  admirable.  We  moderns  are 
far  too  much  in  earnest,  that's  the  mischief  of  us. 

I  don't  often  hear  from  Clifton.  I  am  sure  that 
I  have  many  good  friends  there,  but  few  consider  it 
necessary  to  trouble  me  with  the  assurance.  Still 
it  is  very  pleasant  to  have  it  in  black  and  white. 


202          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 
To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

July  2,  1893. 

The  youth  is  right  or  nearly  so.  It  was  no  mood 
that  season  takes  away  or  brings.  My  whole  life  is 
in  *  Clifton 1,'  a  life  steadfastly  or  normally  rebellious 
against  the  calling  to  which  circumstances  had  com- 
pelled me.  You  see  these  boys  divine  the  thing — 

bless  them !  And  so ,  a  boy  of  boys,  thought  it 

was  impatience  of  routine ;  really  a  very  good,  if 
inadequate,  solution.  And  there  let  it  rest,  for 
evidently  you  will  not  take  N.  as  fully  and  obviously 
explaining  all ! ! 

I  must,  however,  write  to  W.  For  he  is  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  whom  I  could  apply  such  words 
as  '  truculent  quack.'  It  was  deliciously  characteristic 
of  him,  the  magnanimity,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  equanimity 
with  which  he  had  already  appropriated  the  jibe  to 
himself.  .  .  . 

Your  '  Sir  Thomas 2 '  is  absolute.  Yes,  that  is  the 
murex ;  but  I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself.  I  stand 
abashed  before  the  positively  awful  splendour  of  the 
words,  'Let  the  world  be  deceived  in  thee  as  they 
are  in  the  lights  of  heaven.'  I  do  not  think  language 
can  be  carried  to  a  higher  point  than  that.  It  is 
something  that  any  one  could  have  been,  however 
distantly,  reminded  of  a  pearl  so  transcendent  by  my 
poor  murex. 

1  See  p.  188. 

*  The  quotation  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne  I  used  to  illustrate 
T.  E.  B.  's  '  imperial  murex ' : 

That  imperial  murex  grain 
No  carrack  ever  bore  to  Thames  or  Tiber. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  203 

To  H.  R.  KING. 

RAMSEY,  ISLE  OF  MAN, 

July  9,  1893. 

Your  letter  came  all  right,  for  the  Isle  of  Man  is 
a  small  place,  except  in  the  estimation  of  its  in- 
habitants. 

Thanks  for  the  kind  things  you  say  about  my 
book.  It  is  a  sort  of  'lucky  bag' ;  and  people  take 
what  pleases  them.  Those  who  are  kindly  disposed 
are  content  to  do  this,  and  '  chuck  the  balance.' 
I  fancy  it  is  my  last.  What's  the  good  of  gleaning 
in  such  a  field  ? 

No,  Sherborne  would  not  have  done  a  bit  better, 
nor  any  place  with  boys !  Some  heavenly,  cloud- 
cuckoo  land  high  up  in  air  between  St.  Bees  and 
Maughold  would  have  been  about  the  spot.  No 
irals  nor  7rai8aycwyo$  should  hover  in  that  atmosphere, 
an  "ETTO^,  a  TTOITJT?;?,  a  x°pos  opviOw,  at  worst  a  Triballic 
bugaboo  to  talk  gibberish ;  then  I  should  have  been 
quite  happy. 

The  island  is  glorious.  Ever  since  February  we 
have  been  enjoying  untold  delights.  The  three  winter 
months,  though,  were  unredeemably  horrible. 

To  Miss  D.  BROWN. 

RAMSEY, 

July  9,  1893. 

I  think  I  told  you  of  my  bitter  disappointment  in 
the  matter  of  blaeberries.  Triumphant  visitors  had 
gone  up  before  me,  and  swept  the  whole  mountain- 
side. However,  I  had  my  revenge.  I  went  up  about 
a  week  ago,  and  discovered  that  their  ravages  ter- 


204  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

minated  at  a  certain  point,  and  beyond  that  point 
I  got  any  quantity.  In  fact,  I  was  in  a  position  to  sit 
down  quietly  and  pick  the  arm's  length  all  round, 
occasionally  shifting,  but  without  rising.  That  is 
excellent  blaeberry-picking.  We  had  them  stewed, 
a  pis-aller,  no  doubt,  for  they  ought  decidedly  to  be 
in  some  sort  of  crust  to  get  the  fine  pent-up  flavour 
and  bouquet  of  the  situation.  .  .  .  Edith  wouldn't 
touch  them.  .  .  .  But  it  requires  more  than  human  self- 
control  to  abstain  when  the  hot  vapour  curls  up  under 
the  nostrils  of  Jove.  Concentrated  by  crust,  I  verily 
believe  even  Edith  would  have  given  in. 

Picking  blaeberries,  not  eating  them,  is  very 
fatiguing.  They  require  such  minute  attention.  And 
then  at  night,  when  you  close  your  eyes,  they  crowd 
upon  you,  and  you  can't  get  rid  of  them  ;  they  haunt 
your  sleep,  i.  e.  if  you  get  any  sleep  at  all. 

TO  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

July  18,  1893. 

Time  will  run  on  and  fetch  that  age  of  gold  and 
Irwin  which  is  to  set  me  up  for  another  winter. 

My  brethren  are  rather  troublesome.  My  reading, 
and  my  '  Repetition,'  and  my  writing  suffer  terribly ; 
doubtless  you  will  see  the  effect  of  all  this  jaw  in  the 
copy  of  verses  which  I  write  in  response  to  your 
appeal.  It  appears  in  the  National  Observer  of 
July  15,  which  accompanies  this.  There  is  a  direful 
misprint1.  Independently  of  this  nuisance,  I  think 

1  The  verses  are  to  be  found  in  T.  E.  B.'s  Collected  Poems,  ed. 
Macmillan.  The  misprint  was  '  land-clap  '  for  '  hand-clap.' 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  205 

the  verses  have  some  power  both  of  style  and  idea, 
though  they  supply  no  adequate  K<idap<n<i.  Where 
can  you  get  it  ?  ... 

4  The  root  of  the  matter  in  him.'  I  should  think 
so.  To  see  such  a  man  standing  modestly  in  the 
crowd  that  surrounds  the  procession  of  authors  is 
quite  pathetic.  A  lay-brother  of  such  parts,  with 
twice  the  fire  and  twice  the  critical  acumen  that  go 
to  make  the  loftiest  contemporary  professional.  The 
root — and  from  this  root  no  flower  ?  Don't  tell  me  ! 
If  it  be  but  the  flower  of  a  noble  modesty,  I  know 
none  that  excels  it  in  bloom  or  in  fragrance.  .  .  . 

What  your  brother  says  of  the  epic  Sckwwng  is 
so  true.  Still  he  must  miss  the  metre l ;  it  is  true  more 
in  the  Iliad  than  in  the  comparatively  colloquial  and 
domestic  Odyssey.  It  is  a  support,  at  any  rate  a 
consolation,  to  sing  the  great  rhythms  to  oneself  as 
one  ploughs  on.  The  tmtsic,  sir,  the  music  \ 

I  preached  on  Sunday  twice  at  St.  Matthew's  in 
Douglas.  This  is  the  old  church  of  the  town,  now 
threatened  by  some  dreadful  Hausmannic  proceedings. 
I  went  up  to  encourage  these  poor  people  to  defend 
themselves,  to  keep  their  parish,  and  so  forth.  It 
was  the  church  where  I  was  baptized  (I  was  going 
to  say  where  I  was  born),  and  it  has  undergone 
hardly  any  change  up  to  the  present.  This  was  my 
occasion,  and  suited  me  down  to  the  ground.  The 
blessed  old  things  gathered  round  me,  some  of  them 
waylaying  me  at  street  corners  to  tell  me  they  had 
been  married  by  my  father.  This  is  the  food  for 
souls,  is  it  not  ?  Now  don't  laugh ! 

1  i.  e.  in  a  prose  translation. 


206          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

To-day,  like  a  donkey,  I  have  been  up  picking- 
blaeberries  on  the  mountains.  It  came  on  to  rain, 
and  I  persevered  and  got  a  pudding,  but  also  '  dem- 
nition'  wet.  So  I  don't  feel  quite  right.  It  is  no  use 
trying  to  be  careful.  These  hills  demoralize  me. 
I  feel  as  if  they  couldn't  and  wouldn't  harm  me. 

Walters  did  an  extremely  kind  thing  the  other 
day.  Two  old  things  going  about  with  an  entertain- 
ment (!)  of  Recitations  (really  old,  for  I  heard  them 
4  at  it '  thirty-five  years  ago)  took  a  letter  with  them 
from  me  to  Walters.  It  was  the  merest  chance, 
I  thought,  but  I  suggested  that  just  possibly  Walters 
might  give  them  an  evening  at  the  College.  By  Jove, 
sir,  he  did  give  them  an  evening,  and  gave  them 
a  substantial  fee,  and  filled  their  poor  trembling  cup 
of  Auld-Lang-Syne  with  joy  and  thanksgiving,  and 
dismissed  them  with  honour,  almost  reeling  with  the 
intoxication  of  so  unwonted  a  success,  the  boys  giving 
them  a  mighty  three-times-three  which  shook  the 
welkin,  and  stirred  amazingly  the  pulsation  of  two 
hearts  that  have  long  desisted  from  the  exercise 
of  hope. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

August  3,  1893. 

By  this  time  your  troubles  are  over,  and  rest  has 
been  found  for  the  weary  soul.  We  expect  you  on 
Monday  or  Tuesday  next  and  are  eagerly  looking 
forward. 

The  weather  is  not  absolutely  settled,  but  it  gives 
fine  splendours.  To-day,  for  instance,  is  quite  lovely, 
whether  for  sea  or  mountain. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  207 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  College,  where  I 
was  preaching-  the  '  Breaking-up '  sermon. 

PS.  Just  received  your  letter.  The  Edinburgh 
escapade  (!)  removes  you  entirely  from  the  Liverpool 
route.  You  will  come  very  comfortably,  and  very 
economically,  by  Ardrossan.  Also  you  will  be  set 
ashore  here,  almost  at  my  door. 

Once  for  all.  The  whole  of  my  summer  happiness 
is  staked  upon  this  visit  of  yours ;  and  all  that  is 
Brown  and  Brown's  centres  at  the  point  of  your 
landing  here  with  at  least  a  clear  fortnight  of  sojourn. 
Everything  on  earth  is  postponed,  is  in  fact  praeter- 
mitted  and  forgotten,  in  presence  of  the  one  imperious 
necessity.  We  shall  have  a  time ! ! 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

August  17,  1893. 

The  emptiness  of  the  smoking-room  is  quite 
sufficient  evidence  that  you  had  a  rough  passage. 
However,  all  is  condoned,  reconciled,  harmonized, 
'  lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  praise '  at  Kingham.  There, 
safe  in  the  middle  fields,  you  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace, 
and  forget  the  watery  ways.  The  salt  evaporates 
from  your  skin,  the  Manx  accent  fades  from  your 
ear,  and  you  are  your  excellent  English  self  again 

I  have  finished  Tess.  It  is  very  unsatisfactory. 
The  last  part,  the  part  after  Clare's  return,  is  in- 
tolerable. It  is  also  weak,  just  as  if  Hardy  had  been 
very  unwell,  yet  forced  by  the  serial  method  of  pub- 
lication to  produce  '  copy.'  One  observes  this  in  the 


208  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

languor  of  the  story,  combined  with  the  cantharadine 
grip,  or  rather  griping,  of  an  occasional  effort.  The 
original  impulse  dies,  but  makes  a  few  desperate, 
ineffectual  kicks.  Such  are  the  Stonehenge  business, 
and  the  '  black  flag.'  Fancy  grasping  at  Stonehenge 
to  heighten  a  situation !  And  how  badly  it  is  done  ! 
It  surely  was  going  out  of  the  way  to  drag  in  the 
blessed  old  thing  at  all.  But,  when  he  was  about  it, 
he  ought  to  have  made  a  better  use  of  the  machine. 
Unquestionably  he  had  an  attack  of  influenza  just  at 
that  point.  I  resent  it  enormously.  A  man  must 
be  either  miserably  out  of  sorts,  or  fearfully  hard  up 
for  sensational  colour,  to  make  a  snatch  at  Salisbury 
Plain.  It  is  just  like  rouge ;  and  that  too  upon  a 
moribund  face,  for  the  story  has  already  shown  every 
symptom  of  approaching  death. 

The  '  black  flag ' !  Cheap,  though  creepy.  What 
an  end!  And  do  you  think  Clare  and  Liza-Lu  are 
even  respectable  as  they  crawl  away — hand-in-hand, 
it  is  true,  but  yoked  in  a  dismal  fellowship,  inevitably 
suggested  by  the  expressed  wish  of  Tess  that  they 
should  marry  ?  Notice  too  the  vague  treatment  of 
Liza-Lu's  person.  I  take  Liza-Lu  to  be  a  sort  of 
giant  succubus,  or  succuba  would  it  be  ? — an  ebaiiche 
of  God  knows  what.  And  these  two  are  to  continue 
the  business.  Liza-Lu  is  to  be  all  that  Tess  ought 
to  have  been.  This  is  the  most  commonplace  of 
expedients,  and  never  can  satisfy.  Liza-Lu  indeed ! 
conceived  of  by  me  as  a  compound  of  Undine,  Caddy 
Jellyby,  and  a  possible  Doll  Tearsheet !  And  then 
how  abominable  is  the  later  Tess!  Her  first  fall 
was  nothing.  But  the  second What!  that  fellow! 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  209 

the  chap  that  she  had  seen  as  Methodist  preacher ! 
Incredible !  She  couldn't.  No  woman  could.  How 
you  detest  her  !  Of  course  you  do,  for  she  is  simply 
monstrous — a  portent.  And  yet  you  liked  her.  Cer- 
tainly I  did,  but  not  now — this  is  ruin  indeed.  Clare 
had  told  her  to  have  recourse  to  his  father  in  case 
of  extremity.  The  author  has  slipped  that  in  lest  we 
should  feel  Clare  to  be  guilty  of  criminal  neglect. 
But  he  failed  to  perceive  how  terribly  it  aggravated 
the  guilt  of  Tess.  Had  Tess  pride  ?  Pride !  What ! 
And  this  pride  threw  her  into  the  arms  (shall  we  call 
them  arms  ?)  of  the  hydra  D'Urberville !  And  this  is 
the  Tess  we  knew.  The  fact  is  Hardy  doesn't  know 
his  people,  and,  for  the  sake  of  sensational  effect,  he 
will  take  one  of  his  own  sweet  countrywomen  and 
drag  her  through  all  this  impossible  and  inconsistent 
dirt.  Don't  tell  me  that  this  is  the  aim  of  a  true  artist. 
Where  is  your  716.605  ?  Where  is  your  Kadapo-is  ?  You 
can't  eat  your  cake  and  have  your  cake.  The  Tess 
of  the  later  part  is  not  the  Tess  of  the  earlier.  You 
surely  must  have  some  kind  of  identity  in  order 
to  maintain  the  most  otiose  interest  in  the  victim. 
But  she  is  gone,  vanished  like  Iphigenia  from  among 
the  flames.  Something  has  been  left  behind,  substi- 
tuted for  her ;  but  not  a  deer  of  Dian's  herd — good 
gracious,  no !  a  mask  of  the  unutterable,  faeces  and 
the  fiend ! 

Well  now,  perhaps  I  have  said  enough.  It  will  be 
long  before  I  recover  from  this  abominable  book. 
But  I  am  not  sorry  I  have  read  it.  There  is  a  decided 
talent,  but  it  is  wasted.  The  heroine  was '  condemned 
under  an  arbitrary  law,  not  founded  in  nature.1  That 

I  O 


210          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

is,  the  law  of  chastity  is  not  founded  in  nature. 
Methinks  a  precious  doctrine.  But  the  second  fall 
of  Tess  ?  Do  you  condemn  it  or  do  you  not  ?  Did 
she  then  merely  break  an  arbitrary  law  ?  If  so  you 
can  sympathize  with  her.  But,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  holy,  I  cannot  and  will  not  sympathize. 

Kindest  regards  to  Fowler 1.  Get  him  to  play 
some  Bach  to  you,  and  to  show  you  birds. 

I  go  to  Laxey  on  Wednesday  to  lecture  on  all 
sorts  of  things. 

To  E.  RYDINGS. 

RAMSEY, 

August  26,  1893. 

Many  thanks  for  your  story.  It  is  most  delightful. 
Why  didn't  you  read  it  ?  Nothing  could  be  better. 
If  it  were  written  out  in  a  fair  large  hand,  I  should 
much  like  to  read  it  in  public  myself.  It  is  Manx  to 
the  marrow:  all  that  it  wants  is  the  pronunciation, 
which  no  spelling,  however  phonetic,  can  supply  : 
nor,  indeed,  can  any  but  the  native  produce  vocally. 

The  ideal  method  of  publication  would  be  for  me 
to  get  it  off  by  heart,  and  then  recite  it.  Much  is 
lost  by  having  to  use  a  MS.  Think  of  this  another 
time!  .  .  . 

To  E.  RYDIXGS. 

RAMSEY, 

September  2,  1893. 

.  .  .  Thank  you  very  much  for  the  kind  words  you 
spoke  after  my  lecture 2,  especially  for  what  you  said 
1  W.  Warde  Fowler.  s  Lecture  on  «  Manx  Idioms.'— E.  R. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          211 

on  the  topic  of  'making  fun.'  I  hear  that  the  popular 
version  of  my  visit  to  Laxey  was  as  follows : — '  Pazon 
Brown  was  praechin'  on  the  Manx  idiots.  Lek  enough 
for  the  Asylum — lek.'  .  .  . 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

September  17,  1893. 

Concerning  Tess,  you  have  not  answered  one  point 
of  mine,  viz.  that  Tess  could  have  gone  to  her 
father-in-law,  and  had  positively  been  told  to  do  so 
by  her  husband,  in  case  of  need.  She  deliberately 
preferred  the  Methodist  blackguard.  I  believe 
Hardy  introduced  these  directions  as  given  by  Clare 
(is  that  his  nime  ?)  simply  to  save  this  wretched  man 
from  the  reproach  of  leaving  his  wife  in  such  an 
impasse.  Clare  was  already  so  contemptible  a 
creature  that  it  wouldn't  have  done  to  add  another 
taint  of  imbecility,  not  to  say  infamy. 

I  don't  see  power  in  the  book,  but  I  do  note 
considerable  beauty  in  parts.  The  women  at  the 
dairy  farm,  though  sufficiently  ridiculous  about  that 
dreadful  Clare,  are  really  admirable  in  their  bovine 
(vaccine)  sympathy  with  Tess,  and  their  self-renuncia- 
tion. Here  I  detect  a  touch  of  clover  quite  guiltless 
of  turnip.  They  chew  the  cud  of  a  placid  grief  with 
much  sweetness.  Still  it  is  all  cud-chewing,  bless  the 
wenches ! 

I  read  nothing!  the  Island  harasses  me  with  its 
loveliness,  and  I  can't  stay  in  the  house.  Also  I  am 
smoking  more  than  I  did.  I  have  written  an  article, 
O  2 


2i2          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

though,  in  my  Manx  character  series,  which  I  will 
send  you  when  it  is  printed.  It  is  the  last. 

I  heard  one  or  two  good  stories  at  Braddan  when 
I  preached  there  (last  Sunday).  One  was  of  a  child 
at  the  Sunday  school.  '  What  ought  you  to  do 
on  Sunday  ? '  *  Go  to  church.'  '  What  ought  you  to 
do  next?'  'Go  to  chapel.'  Was  it  not  precisely 
the  story  for  a  vicar  to  tell?  You  feel  the  atmo- 
sphere— what  ? 

Your  holiday  has  evidently  been  a  good  one,  and 
will  have  done  you  good.  The  little  Island  may 
count  for  something;  but  the  converse  with  your 
own  kin  and  with  Fowler  in  those  pleasant  country 
places  must  count  for  more.  I  have  no  brother  now, 
and  that  is  a  sad,  sad  want. 

To  AN  OLD  CLIFTONIAN. 

RAMSEY, 

September  21,   1893. 

4  You  don't  care  for  school  work ' — but  I  fear  there 
is  no  choice.  I  demur  to  your  statement  that  when 
you  take  up  schoolmastering  your  leisure  for  this 
kind  of  thing  will  be  practically  gone.  Not  at  all. 
If  you  have  the  root  of  the  matter  in  you — and 
I  think  you  have — the  school  work  will  insist  upon 
this  kind  of  thing  as  a  relief.  My  plan  always  was 
to  recognize  two  lives  as  necessary — the  one  the  outer 
kapelistic  life  of  drudgery,  the  other  the  inner  and 
cherished  life  of  the  spirit.  It  is  true  that  the  one 
has  a  tendency  to  kill  the  other,  but  it  must  not,  and 
you  must  see  that  it  does  not. 

It's  an  awfully  large  order,  but  we  really  need  three 


,893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  213 

lives — the  life  of  pedagogic  activity,  as  strenuous  as 
you  like ;  the  social  life  nicely  arranged,  and  kept 
in  hand,  but  never  regarded  as  serious;  and  the 
intellectual  and  spiritual  life. 

The  pedagogic  is  needful  for  bread  and  butter, 
also  for  a  certain  form  of  joy  ;  of  the  inner  life  you 
know  what  I  think ;  the  social  life  is  required  of  us 
and  must  be  managed.  You  had  better  act  on  the 
supposition  that  you  are  never  to  make  your  bread 
and  butter  by  anything  but  schoolmastering.  That 
supposition,  amounting  to  a  conviction,  will  keep  you 
hard  at  it.  Make  quite  sure  of  that  department. 
Your  inner  work  had  better  be  kept  as  a  solace. 

One  thing  that  I  always  felt  about  my  own  verses, 
if  I  may  refer  to  myself,  was  the  hope  that  some  day 
my  friends,  including  my  old  boys  grown  up  to  man's 
estate,  might  accept  them  as  human  pledges,  and, 
by  a  certain  retrospective  sympathy,  bear  me  upon 
their  hearts.  This  has  largely  happened  to  me,  and 
is  now  the  source  of  my  greatest  happiness.  When 
the  time  comes  for  publication — say  some  five  years 
hence — nothing  will  have  happened  to  your  verses 
to  make  them  fail  of  their  full  effect.  .  .  .  As  regards 
publication,  now  or  hereafter,  there  is  but  one  way 
open — the  work  must  be  sent  to  a  publisher,  who, 
or  his  reader,  will  treat  you  with  the  utmost  in- 
difference, except  in  so  far  as  they  judge  the  work 
good.  The  first  encounter  with  them  is  horrible: 
the  coldest  sensation,  the  feeling  of  utter  friendlessness ; 
very  like  what  death  must  be,  that  final  sensation 
in  which  we  are  destined  to  be  absolutely  alone. 
I  wish  I  could  help  you  more.  All  I  can  do  is  to 


214          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

assure  you  that  your  work  is  most  promising1.  But 
man  can't  live  by  4  sonnets '  alone,  and  no  publisher 
will  look  at  you  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  till  he 
is  quite  satisfied  there  '  is  money  '  in  you.  That  is 
their  hideous  phrase. 

To  E.  RYDINGS. 

RAMSEY, 

October  3,  1893. 

...  I  am  extremely  grateful  to  you  for  your  kind 
words  about  my  lecture  on  'Manx  Character.' 
You  do  indeed  give  praise  freely  and  unreservedly 
when  you  are  about  it.  There  are  some  people  who 
will  hedge  under  any  circumstances :  you  are  not  one. 

The  '  inside l '  Manxman  had  better  be  told  the 
truth  about  our  people.  It  would  be  an  insult  to 
approach  such  a  subject  without  the  firmest  resolve 
to  speak  the  truth.  And  the  truth  I  have  spoken. 
That  is  one  thing  I  can  claim  to  have  done.  I  am 
not  an  advocate,  I  am  a  judge:  I  sit  on  the  bench. 
My  knowledge  of  the  case  entitles  me  to  the  seat, 
and  no  one  shall  oust  me  from  it. 

But,  after  all,  if  the  person  whose  character  is 
submitted  to  inquiry  does  not  exactly  leave  the 
court  without  the  slightest  stain,  &c.,  &c.,  are  not  you 
surprised  to  see  how  very  creditably  he  comes  -out 
from  the  examination  ?  The  analysis  was  a  prolonged 
and  searching  one,  yet  he  never  broke  down,  my  dear 
old  Manxman,  not  he.  Why,  I  consider  the  result 

1  I  had  said  the  '  outside  Manxman '  would  be  pleased  with  what 
had  been  said,  but  I  was  afraid  the  '  inside  Manxman ' — those  now 
living  on  the  island — might  not  altogether  like  everything  therein 
said.— E.  R. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  215 

quite  a  triumph.  And  then  the  desire  to  have  it  all 
your  own  way,  all  praise,  and  no  blame,  all  sugar  and 
butter — ah !  how  natural !  It  only  makes  me  love 
them  more,  just  as  one  loves  a  pettish  and  wayward 
child. 

The  Manxman  is  good  and  sound,  and  a  man  to 
live  with,  a  lovable  and  livable  man.  That  is  surely 
the  main  point,  and  that  is  the  upshot  of  the  matter. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

October  9,  1893. 

I  was  sorry  to  see  Jowett's  death  in  the  paper. 
Nothing  that  has  yet  appeared  does  justice  to  the 
subject.  That's  two  of  my  old  examiners,  and  about 
the  third  I  should  not  be  surprised  at  his  having 
gone  long  ago,  without  standing  on  the  ceremony 
of  '  taking  his  leave.'  Rawlinson,  I  think,  was  his 
name.  Timely  warnings !  I  always  owe  Jowett  for 
his  kindness  when  he  withdrew  me  gently,  but 
firmly,  from  the  grim  talons  of  Mark. 

I  went  up  Snaefell  the  other  day.  On  the  top  we 
were  caught  in  a  great  hailstorm.  It  only  lasted  about 
ten  minutes,  but  such  a  blackness !  straight  at  a  bound 
from  Ireland — that  was  its  track.  Till  then  Ireland 
had  been  under  the  thickest  veil ;  but  the  veil  vanished 
in  this  deluge ;  and  we  saw  the  Mourne  Mountains 
clear  as  crystal,  but  black  as  night.  A  space  there 
was  of  purest  sky,  but  no  sunlight ;  a  space  of  dark 
gunpowder  tint,  from  which  your  sweet  old  mother 
looked  forth  the  most  bewitching,  fascinating  vixen. 
Oh,  how  she  hated  us  !  A  fixed,  eternal,  glaring  stare 


216  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

of  hate  and  implacable  revenge.  No,  not  us,  poor 
little  kind-hearted,  goosey-gander  Mona,  but  you, 
you  English.  How  the  hail-stones  hissed  hate! 
So  it  is  that  night  and  day  these  terribly  '  naughty 
passions '  pass  over  us  in  transition.  We  are  in  the 
line  of  fire,  and  we  sometimes  try  to  reconcile  you. 
But  what  can  we  do  ?  That  day,  for  instance,  we 
did  put  up  the  sweetest  little  kiss  of  a  rainbow  just 
over  Barrule.  But  Ireland  stared  fierce  and  unmiti- 
gated ;  and  your  dear  old  bungling,  well-meaning 
Britishers  looked  rather  confused  and  flurried ;  but  in 
five  minutes  had  recovered  the  inevitable  attitude  of 
perfect  self-complacency,  and  the  Pharisee  in  ercelsis. 
But  sure  you're  a  noble  people,  and  I  allis  said  so. 

By-the-bye,  notwithstanding  the  shelter  of  the  hut, 
we  got  very  wet,  and  I  thought  I  was  in  for  an 
influenza  from  which  '  salpetre  wouldn't  save  me,  and 
that's  a  sthrong  pickle.'  However,  I  am  'just  for' 
a  sore  throat,  which  is  a  sufficient  nuisance,  and 
almost  confines  me  to  the  house. 

I  send  you  a  copy  of  N.  O.,  last  Saturday's.  It  con- 
tains an  article  by  me  on  Pusey's  Life,  which  I  hope 
and  think  you  will  like.  Before  writing  it,  I  really 
read  the  book,  and  steeped  my  mind  in  all  the  tenderest 
and  sweetest  of  my  old  Ch.  Ch.  and  Oriel  recollections. 
Liddon  writes  like  a  gentleman,  and  has  affected  me 
much  by  certain  suppressions  which  are  obvious 
enough  to  the  initiated.  As  to  Pusey,  I  stand 
amazed.  Church 1  (!)  had  left  me  unconvinced,  New- 
man, Burgon,  the  Mozleys  had  hardly  shaken  me  ; 
but  now  before  the  man  himself  thus  revealed  (and 

1  Cf.  p.  27.     His  admiration  for  Dean  Church  was  unqualified. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  217 

the  revelation  is  unquestionably  genuine),  I  throw  up 
my  hands,  and  fall  upon  my  knees.  Yes,  here  was 
a  good,  good,  real  man  !  And  from  a  Patriotic  point 
of  view,  what  are  we  not  to  think  of  the  patience,  the 
firmness,  the  absolute  confidence  in  his  fellow-country- 
men with  which  he  waited,  bestrode  that  fiery 
Pegasus,  rode  the  great  race,  and  won,  while  Newman 
lay  sprawling  on  the  Via  Sacra  ?  This  is  the  unmis- 
takable Englishman,  this  dogged  Pusey;  dogged, 
but  did  you  see  the  tenderness!  God  forgive  me! 
When  I  think  of  my  blindness  !  Well,  well, '  there's 
a  dale  that'll  have  to  be  forgiven  at  some  of  us — aye, 
a  dale.'  But,  bedad,  sor,  I'm  as  thrue  a  Protestan' 
as  the  wan  o'  ye,  for  all  that.  I  feel  sure  that  no  man 
did  anything  like  as  much  as  Pusey  to  stave  off 
Popery  in  England.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  Gore  and  those  people  ?  Tell 
me.  I  feel  a  good  deal  attracted  towards  them,  but 
don't  know  much  about  them,  except  that  I  suppose 
Pusey  would  have  had  nothing  to  say  to  them.  But 
then  that's  of  course. 

The  island  is  still  as  green  as  an  emerald.  Ah, 
that  poor  dear  outcast  in  the  West !  If  she  were  only 
as  happy  as  we  !  But  that  look  of  sullen  defiance  ! 
there  was  no  mistake  about  it.  And  I  have  no  conso- 
lation in  the  glibness  of  Chamberlain,  or  the  bow-wow 
of  Salisbury. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

October  12,  1893. 

Your  account  of  Jowett's  funeral  is  most  interesting. 
.  .  .  Your  brother,  as  usual,  was  on  the  very  edge  of 


2i8  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1893 

observation  (acies  observandi}  :  most  striking  was 
his  remark  about  the  fine  set  of  heads.  ...  I  believe 
that  Jowett,  like  so  many  Englishmen,  carried  the 
principle  of  not  pinning  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve 
for  daws  to  peck  at  so  far  as  to  forget  that,  besides 
the  pecking  daws,  there  are  the  craving  hearts  of 
others  .  .  .  craving  for  the  food,  which,  God  help  us ! 
is  not  too  abundantly  spread  upon  the  tables  of  this 
world.  But  it  is  rash  of  me  to  speculate :  frailties,  at 
the  worst ;  and  the  dear  old  elegist  reminds  us  where 
these  are  to  be  left. 

Do  you  think  of  going  through  with  Lucian  ? 
Would  it  be  advisable  ? — the  whole  of  a  voluminous 
author?  ...  I  must  say  it  seems  to  me  a  kind  of 
slavery :  and  of  slavery  no  kind  can  ever  repay  one. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

October  15,  1893. 

Fowler's J  printed  enclosure 2  is  a  document  of  great 
importance.  I  did  not  need  it  to  strengthen  me  in 
my  Unionism.  Only  no  one  can  conceive  how 
unhappy  I  feel  about  Ireland.  No  hope  whatever, 
not  in  my  time.  It  is  only  human  nature  that  you 
steady  old  Unionists  should  feel  something  like 
exhilaration  at  the  removal  of  this  shadow.  But  to 
me  the  removal  of  one  shadow  is  but  the  descent  of 
another  still  more  fatal. 

In  Daudet's  Lettres  de  mon  Moulin  there  is  one 
which  I  have  read  and  re-read,  and  would  read  for 

1  W.  Warde  Fowler. 

3  Reasons  for  not  conceding  'Home  Rule1  to  Ireland. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  219 

ever.  It  really  is  absolute  (!).  It  is  called  '  Les 
Vieux  ' — only  about  half  a  dozen  pages,  imperishable, 
inestimable.  Do  read  it. 

Let  me  make  a  confession.  This  is  the  Twentieth 
Sunday  after  Trinity,  and  I  have  read  Ishmael,  by 
Miss  Braddon.  It  is  not  altogether  rot :  but  I  never 
before  realized  the  inequality  of  the  authoress. 


To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

RAMSEY, 

October  24,   1893. 

That  I  don't  answer  your  letters  more  promptly 
is  a  psychological  study  of  the  most  interesting  kind. 

I  sometimes  think  the  reason  may  be  the  instan- 
taneous repercussion  of  your  touch — the  impulse  is 
to  reply  on  the  moment.  Now,  as  circumstance  is 
the  beastliest  of  idiots,  one  can  never  be  sure  of  doing 
this.  Time  passes,  and  more  patient  and  phlegmatic 
desires  attain  their  accomplishment,  while  the  primary 
desire  and  intention  vanishes  futile  and  frustrate. 

Your  book  on  Flaubert  promises  to  be  a  very 
exhaustive  treatise.  From  the  nature  of  the  case, 
it  will  be  very  instructive  for  the  English  people. 
To  understand  Flaubert  is  to  understand  the  most 
intensely  un-English  spirit  that  ever  breathed.  That 
will  do  us  good ;  we  sadly  want  our  loins  to  be 
girded,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  our  lamps  to  be  set 
burning.  The  excessive  scrupulousness  of  Flaubert 
in  his  literary  work  is  not  likely  to  have  any  imitators 
this  side  of  the  Channel.  But  it  is  well  we  should 
know,  if  only  in  distant  inaccessibility,  these  children 


220  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

of  light.  I  have  read  Le  Docteur  Rameait  of  Ohnet ;  — 
first  part  good,  beginning  of  second  part  (some  three 
chapters)  intolerable  rot ;  the  remainder,  except  just 
one  slip  at  the  very  end,  magnificent. 

But  I  never  tire  of  Daudet's  Lettres  de  mon 
Moulin.  You  know  the  short  story  called  lLes  Vieux.' 
Ah,  that  is  exactly  what  I  would  fain  write !  Such 
a  merest  trifle,  but  such  ineffable  loveliness.  Doubtless 
you  have  read  it :  you  will  at  once  recollect  it,  when 
I  quote  the  phrase,  '  Bon  jour  braves  gens !  je  suis 
1'ami  de  Maurice.'  The  quality !  the  quality !  Oh, 
do  let  us  aim  at  that ;  it  is  everything.  And  to 
think  that  it  should  seem  so  casual,  just  a  drop 
amongst  a  thousand  others,  when  it  is  really  the 
gutta  serena  of  a  priceless  pearl  that  doesn't  drop 
at  all.  These  things  delight  me,  but  they  also 
depress  me.  They  don't  perplex  me  at  all.  I  quite 
see  how  natural  it  is  for  certain  minds  to  energize 
in  this  way :  but  then  /  can't ;  and  that  is  settled 
for  ever,  and  probably  was  settled  some  fifty  years 
ago.  In  your  case,  it  is  not  settled.  Strive,  strive 
to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate  !  Even  /  (madman  that 
I  am !)  have  not  yet  given  up  all  endeavour,  utterly 
as  I  have  abandoned  hope.  The  endeavour  is  to 
write  one  poor  story  of  about  five,  not  more  than 
ten  pages,  that  the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 
What  say  you  ?  Shall  we  go  in  for  this  ?  Shall  we 
get  the  little  bit  of  canvas,  and  stretch  it  on  an  easel 
that  shall  be  slender  as  les  Jils  de  la  bonne  Vierge, 
but  strong  as  adamant  ? 

Dear  Tarver,  a  visit  to  you  would  be  exquisite ; 
but  it  cannot  be  as  yet.  Let  us  hope,  *  before  I  go 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  221 

hence,'  I  may  manage  it.  At  present,  correspondence 
(not,  I  trust,  with  the  reciprocity  on  the  one  side 
only)  must  do  the  business.  Our  brave  little  Isle 
has  behaved  admirably  all  the  summer;  and  it  still 
looks  very  pleasant  and  green.  I  have  drunk  largely 
of  its  essence,  and  am  all  the  better. 


To  J.  C.  TARVER. 

RAMSEY, 

October  29,  1893. 

Many  thanks  for  the  loan  of  Maupassant. 

I  have  read  one  volume — the  Conies  du  jour  et  de 
la  nuit.  I  confess  I  am  a  good  deal  disappointed. 
The  Aveu  is  fair,  but  not  much  beyond  the  kind  of 
story  which  commercial  travellers  used  to  tell  in  the 
good  old  times.  Whether  this  simple  straightforward 
kind  of  lubricity  is  still  the  thing  around  the  supper- 
table  and  in  the  smoking-room,  I  can't  say.  They 
are  gone  from  my  gaze,  those  neiges  d'antan.  The 
story,  however,  is  'Le  Bonheur.'  I  don't  deny  the 
gruesome  merits  of  Le  Vieux  (really  admirable); 
but,  you  know,  a  little  bit  of  sugar  suits  English. 
Maupassant  is  far  from  saccharine,  deals  as  little  as 
possible  in  the  article.  But  the  old  craving  is  in  us, 
and  the  absinthe  will  hardly  go  down  without  it. 
Independently  of  that,  one  likes  to  know  that  in 
entering  the  inferno  of  this  great  cynic  one  is  not 
bidden  to  '  abandon  all  hope.'  Why,  here  is  a  lovely 
story,  and  a  manly.  No,  no,  these  men  have  not 
scooped  out  their  hearts  and  made  metal  cups  of 
them.  The  old  alternate  stroke  is  there,  the  see-saw 


222  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN         [1893 

of  what  men  really  are  and  must  be,  up  to  the  heaven 
of  purity  and  peace,  down  to  the  sentina  of  honest 
nastiness.  Aren't  we  made  so  ?  He  that  denies  either 
Schwung  is  a  monster  and  no  man.  This  little  sketch 
is  so  exquisite  too  as  a  matter  of  art.  Corsica,  as 
seen  occasionally  from  some  point  of  view  on  the 
Riviera,  suggests  the  situation.  How  different  the 
Corsica  at  the  beginning,  a  shadow,  a  wraith,  and  at 
the  end,  the  home  of  these  poor  old  things!  By 
Jove,  I  felt  this  very  much.  I  always  feel  like  this 
in  looking  at  hills  far  away,  especially  when  they 
are  separated  from  me  like  those  of  Cumberland  and 
Scotland  by  the  sea,  and  are  only  visible  at  rare 
intervals. 

All  my  children  are  forsaking  me :  I  intend  myself 
going  to  Castletown  and  spending  a  week  with  my 
old  chum  Pleignier.  I  doubt  not  we  shall  have  plenty 
of  Flaubert,  Maupassant,  &c.,  and,  if  we  don't  burn 
the  midnight  oil,  imbibe  a  good  deal  of  the  midnight 
whusk. 

To  Miss  D.  BROWN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  a,  1893. 

I  was  afraid  the  passage  would  be  stormy,  although 
the  wind  was  rather  favourable.  You  had  it,  I  think, 
technically  speaking,  on  the  starboard  quarter,  and 
she  probably  both  kicked  and  rolled  a  good  deal.  .  .  . 
I  saw  your  boat  for  a  good  while  ;  I  went  up  Douglas 
Head,  and  walked  along  the  Marine  Drive,  and  so 
on  to  Kerristhal,  near  Port  Soderick,  beyond  the 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  223 

completed  portion.  It  is  really  very  fine.  Then 
I  turned  inland  and  wandered  past  Summercot, 
Oakhill,  Middle,  Pulrose  to  Braddan— a  regular 
Braddan  'sthroul,'  terminating  at  the  Union  Mills 
station.  It  was  a  soothing  walk,  but  rather  melancholy. 
I  found  myself  beset  with  the  thought  how  the 
tradition  of  all  this  must  cease  with  me  personally. 
None  of  you  can  retain  it,  and,  of  my  contemporaries, 
hardly  any  one  has  the  clue.  That  made  me — well, 
I  think  I  may  say,  a  little  sad. 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  5,  1893. 

I  went  to  Douglas  on  Friday  week  and  saw  Dora 
off  by  the  boat.  So  I  went  to  the  Head,  the  Marine 
Drive.  Really  very  fine,  though  I  was  shocked  to 
see,  on  a  great  advertizing  board,  that  Bishop 
Bardsley  had  described  the  Great  Orme's  Head  as  not 
being  in  it  with  the  Manx  marvel.  Not  in  it !  What 
a  phrase  to  fall  from  the  lips  of  a  bishop !  As  I 
advanced  on  my  walk  I  had  other  things  to  think 
of.  It  is  my  old  parish ;  every  knoll  and  nook 
haunted  by  a  thousand  memories.  And  indeed  I  felt 
rather  sad.  The  thought  that  troubled  me  was  this — 
who  is  to  perpetuate  the  traditions  ?  They  must  go 
w^ith  me.  The  whole  business  will  be  a  perfect  blank ; 
not  only  tribal  traditions,  but  family.  My  children 
know  next  to  nothing  of  them.  And  these  traditions 
are  the  most  precious  deposit,  though  not  of  a  nature 
to  be  made  public.  '  The  wind  passeth  over  it,  and 


224  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

it  is   gone;    and  the  place   thereof  knoweth  it   no 
more.' 

Under  this  burden  I  stumbled  on.  The  new 
generation  must  build  the  fabric  of  its  own  interests, 
and  the  old  must  vanish.  Yet  there  are  families  in 
which,  by  some  strong  vital  force  of  projection 
on  the  one  hand  and  a  retrospective  adhesiveness  on 
the  other,  all  that  is  best  and  worthiest  is  transmitted. 
It  was  never  so  with  us.  We  live  vigorously  in  the 
living  present,  and  extract  the  gold  from  the  current 
years,  being  amply  satisfied  with  contemporary  rela- 
tions. I  alone  have  tried  to  build  a  cairn  of  memories 
in  my  books.  But  that  is  nothing.  This  isolation  is  the 
nightmare  that  oppresses  me.  If,  in  another  world, 
I  could  find  my  brothers,  restored  and  fitted  for  the 
converse,  what  a  joy  it  would  be !  Perhaps  it  will  be 
so.  This  is  a  long  monody.  Do  forgive  me ! 

Tarver  writes  'constant.'  He  sent  me  last  week 
two  books  of  Maupassant— short  stories,  rather  dis- 
appointing, but  some  of  them  excessively  clever, 
one  beautiful.  Maupassant  did  not  attach  much 
importance  to  beauty;  but,  in  spite  of  himself,  she 
sometimes  hung  upon  his  neck. 

A  very  kind  letter  from  Ainger.  But  how  funny  it 
is  that  so  many  people  are  surprised  that  I  can  write 
decent  English  verse!  They  had  focussed  me  as  a 
dialectic  poet,  a  man  of  the  people,  imperfectly 
educated,  and  so  forth ;  and  they  seem  rather  im- 
patient at  my  venturing  in  a  new  and  more  cultivated 
field.  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  Shall  I  put  on  my  next 
title-page — 'Late  Fellow  of  Oriel,'  &c. ?  or  am  I 
always  to  abide  under  this  ironic  cloak  of  rusticity  ? 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  225 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  7,   1893. 

Here  is  a  pretty  enough  testimonium.  It  occurs 
in  a  hymn  which,  down  to  the  fifteenth  century,  is 
said  to  have  been  sung  at  Mantua  in  the  Mass  of 
St.  Paul:— 

Ad  Maronis  mausoleum 
Ductus  fudit  super  eum 

Piae  rorem  lacrimae : 
Quantum,  inquit,  te  fecissem, 
Vivum  si  te  invenissem, 

Poetarum  maxime! 

Daniel  gives  this  in  his  Thesaurzts  Hymnologicus^ 
574.  Don't  you  think  it  a  delightful  instance  of  the 
Renaissance  nawete  ?  I  will  attempt  a  translation : — 

Brought  to  Maro's  tomb,  he  cried, 
O'er  the  flower  of  Mantua's  pride 

Shedding  many  a  pious  tear : 
'  Living  if  I  could  have  found  thee, 
How  I  would  have  loved  and  crowned  thee, 

Chief  of  poets,  ever  dear ! ' 

Milton's  marvellous  blend  will  no  doubt  be  present 
to  your  mind.  Also  Walter  Map  : — 

Meum  est  propositum  in  taberna  mori, 
Et  vinum  appositum  sitienti  ori, 
Ut  dicant,  quum  venerint  angelorum  chori, 
'Deus  sit  propitius  isti  potatori.' 

'Tis  my  firm  resolve  to  die 

In  a  tavern  lying, 
Wine  unto  my  thirsty  lips 

Kindest  hands  supplying. 
So  shall  angels  come  to  me, 

Bands  of  angels,  sighing  : 
'God  have  mercy  on  his  soul! 

'Tis  the  drunkard  dying.' 
I  P 


226  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [i893 

But  this  is  not  the  same  attitude  of  mind.  There 
is  a  suspicion  of  the  rowdy,  as  in  Villon.  Whereas 
these  blessed  old  clergymen  at  Mantua  sang-  their 
ditty  in  the  most  perfect  good  faith. 

Do  you  know  Robert  Bridges'  poems  at  all? 
I  have  never  seen  them,  but  there  are  some  extracts, 
I  think,  in  Temple  Bar  for  Oct.  Very  fine,  I  think. 
Funnily  enough,  the  Temple  Bar  reviewer  urges  him 
to  translate  Sophocles !  but  is  there  never  to  be  an  end 
of  this  translation  mania  ?  What  do  you  think  of 
Jowett's  Plato  ?  I  often  see  it  described  as  a  master- 
piece. Is  it  ?  Plato's  style  is  so  all-important  that  I 
cannot  but  '  hae  me  doots.'  Again,  I  am  at  Dante 
for  the  what//&  (!)  time.  Few  joys  are  to  be  compared 
with  this.  The  calm  is  so  soothing,  resting  on  such 
enormous  strength.  The  felicities  can  only  be  ade- 
quately appreciated  by  an  Italian,  but  they  often 
pierce  with  a  perfectly  awful  splendour.  I  think 
Dante  is  monotonous,  but  what  a  monotone !  He 
drowns  you  in  a  dream,  and  you  never  want  to  wake. 
This  is  sheer  selfishness  and  egotism,  mooning-  on 
about  my  reading1  and  so  forth.  I  don't  feel  to  be 
talking  to  you.  Stop  me  when  I  take  this  line. 

And  commend  me  to  Clifton  friends.  Whom  do 
you  see  most  of?  R.  I  hope  remembers  me.  He  is 
a  pure  righteous  soul  with  the  root  of  the  matter  in 
him.  ...  I  shall  gossip  for  ever.  Tuus  admodum. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  227 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  n,  1893. 

I  went  to  Peel  on  Thursday,  and  greatly,  vastly 
dined.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  company,  no  speeches, 
just  one  or  two  songs. 

I  probably  smoked  half  a  dozen  cigars,  and  as 
many  pipes.  Deus  sit  propitius  /  These  Peel  men 
are  most  interesting :  they  were  the  upper  class,  not 
'  Tommy  the  Mate '  &  Co.  I  saw  Tommy,  though, 
next  morning.  He  recited  to  me  some  of  his  verses. 
The  nice  old  creature !  but  really  egotistic  in  a  degree 

which Well,  they  don't  get  much  from  us,  and 

the  kindly  listener  is  to  them  at  once  a  solace  and 
a  temptation. 

Rowley's  interpretation  of  my  '  Rapture l '  had 
already  occurred  to  me,  and  I  now  begin  to  prefer  it. 
The  Mourne  Mountains  and  what  lies  behind  them — 
obvious !  The  longing  look,  the  guousgue  tandem, 
the  '  come  over  into  Macedonia  and  help  us.'  So  let 
hate  betake  herself  to  her  native  hell,  and  let  us  bridge 
the  Channel  with  a  bridge  of  sighs !  God  bless  old 
Ireland!  When  could  we  go  over  there  together? 
It  would  be  so  refreshing.  I  have  a  lot  of  pent-up 
love  in  me :  let  me  go  and  pour  it  forth  where 
perhaps  it  would  not  be  unwelcome. 

Dante  is  still  my  companion.     Some  things  bore 
me,  astronomical  horrors,  indications  of  time,  Ptole- 
maic complications.    I  wish  he  had  left  those  dismalities 
to  '  Chaos  and  old  Night.'     Yet  one  is  uncomfortable 
at  passing  them  over.     You  remember  M.'s  disgust  at 
1  Cf.  letter  of  October  9,  1893. 
P  2 


228  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

being  hurried  over  loci  desperati  in  our  Italian  read- 
ings. I  have  not  yet  attained  to  the  true  nervous 
tension  which  makes  some  men  to  'jump '  the  bothers 
and  land  in  Elysium.  Now,  sir,  I  talk  of  Tommy  the 
Mate's  egotism !  how  about  mine  ?  This  life  is  a 
producer  and  conserver  of  egotism.  Hang  it  all !  if 
schoolmaster! ng  is  but  a  sorry  business,  at  any  rate  it 
mixes  you  up  with  contemporaries  and  compels  you 
to  take  account  of  them. 


To  H.  G.  DAKYNS. 

RAMSEY, 

November  13,  1893. 

I  have  been  reading  your  second  volume T  with  great 
delight.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  the  Polity  of  the  Athe- 
nians is  meant  as  a  satire  ?  It  reads  exactly  like  one, 
witty  and  almost  bitter.  All  these  lesser  works  are 
wondrous  interesting.  Even  the  Ways  and  Means 
carries  me  with  it  as  on  a  flowing  tide  of  energy. 
You  have  excited  my  appetite  for  what  is  yet  to  come. 
Some  of  the  very  best  wine  is  yet  unbroached.  .  .  . 

Music  deigns  to  visit  these  island  spaces:  I  don't 
mean  merely  Nature's  music,  though  of  this  we  have 
good  store  [listen !  the  moan,  the  sob,  the  vagitus !]  ; 
but  our  Manx  people  are  musical.  They  have  fine 
voices,  and  they  sing  in  tune.  This  latter  quality  of 
theirs  is  almost  as  infallible  as  are  their  aitches ;  for 
which  let  us  be  duly  thankful.  We  had  a  capital 
concert  some  weeks  ago,  to  which  I  contributed 
a  reading  of  '  Peggy's  Wedding/ 

1  Translation  of  Xenophon. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  229 

M.  wrote  me  nearly  a  year  ago  a  long  letter, 
a  sort  of  Confessio  Fidei  combined  with  an  invita- 
tion, challenge,  or  what  not.  /  never  answered 
it  /  Men  who  go  in  for  '  new  religions '  must  not 
apply  to  me.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  *  the  old  is 
better,'  but  I  am  content  to  drink  the  blessed  old 
vintage  as  long  as  I  am  di  qiia.  When  I  « drink  it 
new  in  my  Father's  kingdom,'  these  bothers  will  be 
of  the  past. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  14,  1893. 

I  wrote  you  a  rigmarole  the  other  day  about  the 
na'ivete  of  the  Renaissance  exhibited  in  a  mediaeval 
hymn.  Of  course  it  was  Virgil.  It  was  quite  natural 
that  Paul  should  be  conceived  of  as  shedding  the 
'  pious  tear '  over  Virgil. 

I  have  been  reading  Dakyns'  second  volume,  and 
am  delighted  with  it.  I  really  don't  know  which  to 
admire  most — the  architect,  artist,  or  man.  But  the 
notes  I  think  are  the  best.  How  deliciously  he  does 
ramble!  No,  it  is  not  rambling  either.  It  is  the 
gesture  of  some  lovely  butterfly  that  lights  upon  or 
hovers  above  a  flower.  With  what  dexterity  he  taps 
the  text,  with  the  application  of  what  consummate 
instruments !  Other  critics  can  probe  or  dissect ;  but 
who  like  Dakyns  can  maintain  with  such  exquisite 
libration  the  asymptotic  attitude  which  is  so  charming, 
and,  let  me  add,  so  characteristic  ?  The  translation 
reads  well.  I  have  not  the  original  to  compare.  In 


230  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

,  — 

the  Agesilaus  he   attains   his  apogee:    in    Dakyns' 

English  it  is  magnificent.     The  peroration  is  quite 

masterly. 

Altogether  it  is  most  refreshing  to  find  that  our  old 
friend  has  by  no  means  lost  himself  in  those  latitudes. 

Let  me  remind  you  that  I  am  not  above  receiving 
with  pleasure  a  bit  of  Clifton  gossip.  I  observe  that 
you  sedulously  (?)  exclude  that  form  of  interest.  But, 
happy  though  I  may  be  in  my  island  life,  I  can't 
forget  how  long  I  went  in  and  out  among  you  at 
Clifton;  and  where  I  conversed  for  so  many  years 
there  must  needs  be  interests  that  touch  me  nearly. 
They  cannot  but  come  closer  both  to  you  and  me, 
certainly  to  you,  than  the  affairs  of  Manxland. 

So  let  me  have,  for  instance,  a  report  (from  your 
point  of  view)  of  a  masters'  meeting.  Tell  me  how 
people  looked,  as  well  as  what  they  said,  or  if  they 
said  nothing.  Let  the  canvas  glow !  Certainly  I 
would  have  decorum :  this  is,  of  course,  the  subaudi- 
tion ;  and  this  I  know  you  will  faithfully  reproduce. 
But  supposing  in  that  serene,  slightly  colourless 
atmosphere,  some  one  has  made  an  ass  of  himself, 
why  not  give  me  the  benefit  of  an  appone  lucro) 
Here  people  make  asses  of  themselves  every  day; 
but  there,  in  proportion  to  the  infrequency  is  the 
piquancy  of  the  emergence.  Then  the  '  Merry  Wives 
of  Clifton.'  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  you  say  you  don't  know 
them.  Get  out!  you  ought  to  know  them:  'tis  a 
field  like  another,  and  indeed  a  fertile  one — a  field, 
did  I  say  ?  a  parterre,  a  pleasaunce  !  Don't  tell  me, 
sir!  Take  counsel,  and  let  me  be  admitted  to  the 
feast  private  and  particular. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  231 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  17,   1893. 

The  admirable  l  Fowler  has  sent  me  a  volume  of 
Bridges'  Poems.  Wasn't  it  kind  of  him  ?  Many  of 
them  are  very  beautiful.  The  gem  is  '  The  Windmill.' 
Let  me  copy  it  for  you  ;  indeed,  I  straightway  got  it 
off  by  heart :  so  here  it  is. 

The  green  corn  waving  in  the  dale, 
The  ripe  grass  waving  on  the  hill : 
I  lean  across  the  paddock  pale 
And  gaze  upon  the  giddy  mill. 

Its  hurtling  sails  a  mighty  sweep 
Cut  thro'  the  air :   with  rushing  sound 
Each  strikes  in  fury  down  the  steep, 
Rattles,  and  whirls  in  chase  around. 

Beside  his  sacks  the  miller  stands 
On  high  within  the  open  door : 
A  book  and  pencil  in  his  hands, 
His  grist  and  meal  he  reckoneth  o'er. 

^  i  His  tireless  merry  slave  the  wind 
s     Is  busy  with  his  work  to-day : 

From  whencesoe'er  he  comes  to  grind ; 
hath  a  will  and  knows  the  way. 

He  gives  the  creaking  sails  a  spin, 
The  circling  millstones  faster  flee, 
The  shuddering  timbers  groan  within, 
And  down  the  shoots  the  meal  runs  free. 

The  miller  giveth  him  no  thanks, 
And  doth  not  much  his  work  o'erlook  : 
He  stands  beside  the  sacks,  and  ranks 
The  figures  in  his  dusty  book. 

There !  that  is  worthy  of  Heine,  and  wonderfully 
like  him. 

1  W.  Warde  Fowler. 


232  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

I  have  written  a  pendant  for  the  Virgilio-Pauline 
whimsy.  This  is  it : 

We  are  led  to  Maro's  bust, 
And  we  slake  the  sacred  dust, 

Not  with  pious  tears  like  Paul. 
Reason  pregnant  is  for  weeping, 
Where  Virgilius  lies  a-sleeping, 

And  we  hear  the  urgent  call — 
'  Construe  !    Construe  ! '     Head  of  Priscian 
Broken  oft,  Apollo  Lycian, 

God  that  wield'st  the  silver  bow, 
Help  us,  one  faint  glimmer  send  us, 
Muses  nine,  assist,  befriend  us, 

Oh  !    Pierian  virgins,  oh ! 
For  the  master's  look  is  horrid, 
And  his  corrugated  forehead 

Indicates  the  usual  signs. 
We  are  done,  sirs,  we  are  spun,  sirs — 
All  is  black  beneath  the  sun,  sirs — 

'  Every  one  five  hundred  lines  ' ! 

Many,  many  thanks  for  the  good  baccy.  Birkett 
and  I  have  both  '  sampled '  it. 

I  have  just  read  your  '  Don  Quixote  '  in  the  Monthly 
Packet  for  May.  I  remember  it  well.  It  is  delightful 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

November  28,   1893. 

.  .  .  *  We  sat  down  in  some  cottages.  Some  of  the 
people  were  magnificent,  throwing  themselves  upon 
you  with  such  vigour  of  accent,  such  warmth  and  fun, 
and  endless  receptivity,  bright,  well  pulled  together, 
sonorous,  that  I  nearly  staggered  under  it — not  chaff — 

1  Walking  back  from  Castletown,  where  he  had  been  staying. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  233 

good  heavens  !  no — but  would  have  been  chaff,  only 
it  wasn't,  for  they  can't  chaff. 

Kitty  Kermode,  alias  Kinvig,  was  the  best.  She 
said  a  very  sweet  and  profound  thing  (but  I  can't 
phrase  it  as  I  ought)  about  the  value  of  friendship,  as 
compared  with  that  of  love.  A  little  happy  creature 
of  some  seventeen  giggled  in  a  dark  corner,  but  I  let 
her  giggle ;  the  old  woman  pierced  me  through  and 
through.  O  fortunati — O  indeed  !  And  these  dear 
things  seemed  to  know  that  their  lot  was  a  happy 
one.  Quod  faustiim  /  Unutterably  precious  to  me 
is  the  woman,  the  native  of  the  hills,  almost  my  own 
age,  or  a  little  younger,  whose  spirit  is  set  upon  the 
finest  springs,  and  her  sympathies  have  an  almost 
masculine  depth,  and  a  length  of  reflection  that  wins 
your  confidence  and  stays  your  sinking  heart. 

The  lady  can't  do  it.  This  class,  of  what  I  suppose 
you  would  call  peasant  women  (I  won't  have  the 
word),  seems  made  for  the  purpose  of  rectifying 
everything,  and  redressing  the  balance,  inspiring  us 
with  that  awe  which  the  immediate  presence  of  abso- 
lute womanhood  creates  in  us.  The  plain,  practical 
woman,  with  the  outspoken  throat  and  the  eternal 
eyes.  Oh,  mince  me,  madam,  mince  me  your  pretty 
mincings !  Deliberate  your  dainty  reticences  !  Balbu- 
tient  loveliness,  avaunt !  Here  is  a  woman  that  talks 
like  a  bugle,  and,  in  everything,  sees  God. 

My  eye !  there's  a  buster.  Da  veniam  /  it  is  really 
too  dreadful.  I  hope  you  are  well.  Kindest  re- 
membrances. 

I  AM  ALONE! 


234  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 


To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

December  3,    1893. 

Y.  upon  Herrick !  What  do  you  mean  ?  By 
Jove,  we  don't  know.  Does  he  appreciate  the  un- 
bowdlerized  Herrick?  Herrick  of  the  amatory 
poems,  as  well  as  the  divine  and  moral.  Did  he  ever 
see  '  a  tempest  in  a  petticoat '  ?  He  may  after  all 
leave  '  merry  gestes '  behind  him.  See  that  you  be- 
come one  of  his  literary  executors !  Y.  as  a  denizen 
of  Cythera  is  lovely. 

I  am  not  doing  much  now ;  in  fact,  am  very  idle. 
I  have  been  reading  too  many  novels,  specially 
French.  This  is  no  good.  Pleignier  supplies  me ; 
so  does  Tarver.  The  whole  '  bilin' '  might  as  well  be 
put  in  the  fire.  It  is  dreadful  to  get  reading  these 
things  immediately  after  breakfast,  with  the  first  pipe 
Of  course  I  ought  to  be  out  in  this  glorious  keen  air, 
but,  instead  of  that,  I  loiter  over  these  '  divilments,' 
one  after  another.  I  get  into  an  armchair  by  a  good 
fire.  A  look  at  yesterday's  Standard;  and  then — 

Take  a  novel,  blend  of  Ouida : 

Metaphors  are  mixed  and  sappy — 
Ardent  creatures!   how  they  need  a 

Kindly  priest  to  make  them  happy ! 
But  I  am  not  sympathetic, 

Spite  of  all  the  cash  and  jewels, 
And  I  find  my  gorge  emetic 

Rising  at  the  hero's  duels. 


i893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  235 

Take  another :   matrimony 

Posited,  a  sober  joyaunce 
Waits  the  reader  ?   no,  my  sonny  : 

To  my  very  great  annoyance, 
Hymen  opes  the  golden  barriers; 

'Tis  a  race,  let  him  or  her  win  ; 
I  will  join  the  peaceful  harriers, 

Write  to  Dakyns,  write  to  Irwin. 

Richepin,  Maupassant,  great  Zola, 

Pornographic  authors  recent, 
Sofas  picturing  cum  sola, 

Just  a  trifle  less  than  decent. 
Wessex  Hardy  swears  the  Channel 

Shall  not  baulk  his  bold  beginning, 
Drops  his  homely  British  flannel, 

Sets  his  pretty  Tess  a-sinning; 

Is  not  frankly,  gaily  lubrick — 

Mrs.  Grundy  will  not  bear  it — 
So  he  ducks,  her  formal  rubrick 

Cheating  with  a  timely  caret. 
English,  German,  French,  Italian — 

Not  the  stuff  for  me,  i'  faikins ! 
I  will  ramble  on  Slieu  Whallian, 

Write  to  Irwin,  write  to  Dakyns. 

And  so  I  have  had  a  very  blessed  ramble  on  Slieu 
Whallian,  '  the  mountain  of  the  wild  colts,'  which 
looks  down  upon  our  Tynwald  Hill.  Soothing, 
redintegrating,  restoring  the  moral  balance,  making 
me  young  and  lusty  as  an  eagle.  'Lustful  as  a 


236  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

satyr '  would  better  represent  the  school  of  writers 
with  whom  I  have  been  conversing.  Severe,  perhaps, 
upon  Hardy;  but,  unless  we  accept  the  theory  of 
weakness  and  physical  indisposition,  I  can  only 
account  for  the  latter  part  of  Tess  as  a  deliberate 
imitation  of  the  cruelty  and  defiance  of  the  common 
sentiment  which  I  find  so  rampant  in  Maupassant. 
It  is  true  the  satire  of  this  tremendous  person  is 
terrific,  but  so  cold-blooded.  By-the-bye,  can  satire 
be  cold-blooded  ?  That  is  more  like  irony.  Yes,  he 
uses  irony,  but  for  the  purposes  of  satire.  Juvenal 
never  cools  down  to  this  point  of  venomous,  deadly 
sting-,  this  cobra  of  horror.  He  gives  vent  to  his  saeva 
indignatio.  Not  so  Maupassant :  he  never  turns  a 
hair,  and  on  you  go ! 

I  think  his  Bel  Ami  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and 
annihilating  works.  A  very  devil !  But,  somewhere 
behind,  there  is  a  God,  a  God  that  hisses  at  his  own 
creation,  and  spits  upon  the  hurly-burly  that  has 
escaped  from  his  hands. 

To  lay  this  aside  for  a  wThile,  let  us  talk,  not  of 
Slieu  Whallian,  antidotic  though  it  be,  yet  not  in 
pari  materia.  Let  me  tell  you  how  delighted  I  was 
the  other  day,  when  an  old  pupil  of  mine  sent  me 
a  piece  of  music  he  had  written  to  the  words — '  Thou 
art  gone  to  the  grave,  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee.' 
I  refer  to  the  words,  rather  than  to  the  music,  though 
that  is  extremely  good. 

But  have  you  ever  quite  realized  the  force  of 
Heber  ?  Except  for  the  unfortunate  choice  of  a  metre, 
I  think  those  lines  are  almost  perfect.  They  show 
what  that  old  Evangelical  school  could  do,  when 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          237 

chastened  by  absolute  culture,  and  guarded  by  con- 
summate taste.  Religious  poetry  lies  open  to  so 
many  dangers.  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern  show 
the  ghastly  results  only  too  manifest. 

But  I  find  something  'similar  the  same'  in  the 
Christian  Year.  Not  so  much,  though,  a  lack  of  taste 
as  of  elevation.  What  a  glorious  creature  was  that 
Reginald !  You  don't  know  how  I  love  him.  Try 
that  poem  by  any  test  or  standard,  and  I  think  you 
will  find  it  faultless.  Yet  the  emotion  and  the  piety, 
so  often  the  pitfalls  of  elegance,  have  not  availed  here 
to  mar  a  single  movement.  Teres  atque  rotundus, 
it  stands  a  Koh-i-noor  of  sacred  song. 

And  thank  God  for  it!  Why  should  this  dear 
fellow's  anxiety,  quite  honest  anxiety,  for  the  souls  of 
men,  thwart  the  native  bent  of  beauty  that  gave  the 
buoyant  lilt,  and  produced  the  inevitable  phrase  ? 
I  confess  I  could,  in  this  poem,  spare  the  buoyancy ; 
it  might  have  been  utilized  in  another  '  From  Green- 
land's icy  mountains.' 

But  even  in  that  old  enemy  of  mine,  who  does  not 
recognize  the  artist  ?  '  Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  His 
story' — no— then  I  give  it  up.  A  true  child  of 
genius,  for  all  that.  He  did  not  live  to  be  a  Charles 
Wesley,  nor  could  he  perhaps  ever  have  become  that. 
One  Charles  Wesley,  sir,  and  no  other. 

PS.— Enclosed  you  will  find  a  curious  address  upon 
an  envelope  : 

*  Scholar  and  Historian.' 
Large,  is  it  not ! 


238  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

December  25,    1893. 

Irwin,  whenas  the  suns,  an  arrant  crew 
Of  lubbers,  cleave  the  unwilling  fissile  dark 
(But  doubtless  better  hid  in  Noah's  ark), 
I  think  that  I  will  take  a  shot  at  you. 
Not  present  is  the  slightest  glimpse  of  blue, 
And  yet  withouten  care,  withouten  cark, 
I  rise  as  lissome  as  a  summer's  lark, 

And  do  what  I  suppose  all  people  do. 

I  greet  the  friend  whom  chiefest  I  must  love, 

And  unto  every  Irwin  in  the  land 

Peace,  plenty,  and  prosperity  I  pray. 

So  shall  the  merry  gods  that  reign  above 

Have  richest  offerings  at  my  grateful  hand, 

And  thine  own  whisky  crown  the  cheerful  day1. 

To  S.  T.  IRWIN. 

RAMSEY, 

December  27,   1893. 

Such  a  combination  of  virtues  I  never  expect  to  see 
again  in  any  man  as  God  gave  us  in  Bartholomew 2. 
There  was  a  divine  sweetness  in  his  constancy  and 
patience,  and  the  '  humility,'  which  I  see  you  recognize 
as  an  element  in  his  character,  was  extremely  beautiful 
and  touching. 

1  A  Christmas  offering. 

2  F.  M.   Bartholomew,  for  many  years  a  master  at  Clifton,  died  of 
cholera  while  on  a  visit  to  India,  in  December,  1892.     It  would  be 
impossible  to  say  here  what  his  personality  was  to  Clifton. 


1893]          LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN  239 

It  is  an  experience  that  seldom  falls  to  one's  lot,  to 
follow  slowly  but  surely  through  noble  avenues  of 
reserve,  a  soul  that  withdraws  itself  as  you  advance 
towards  the  hidden  treasures  it  guarded  with  such 
profound  modesty. 

Simple  and  sage — simplicity,  I  imagine,  the  grand 
note,  simplicity  of  motive  rather  than  of  action,  a  very 
deep  and  rare  simplicity.  His  loss  is  beyond  all  losses 
that  I  can  conceive.  Clifton  was  twined  around  his 
very  heart :  his  life  was  Clifton. 

Beside  his  perfect  devotion  the  ordinary  standard  of 
zeal  and  industry,  however  honest,  is  merely  respect- 
able ;  with  some  it  is  only  a  make-believe  of  awkward 
gesticulation. 

I  append  a  sonnet,  which,  to  some  extent,  relieves 
my  sorrow,  and  which  may  perhaps  help  to  relieve 
yours. 

IN  MEMORIAM. 
F.  M.  BARTHOLOMEW. 
Unselfish,  steadfast,  absolutely  true, 
Dear  friend,  sage  counsellor,  your  every  thought 
Was  ours,  as  pious  Nature  inward  wrought 
The  civic  purpose  and  the  loftier  view. 
From  him  you  most  revered  the  golden  dew 
Of  loyalty  traditional  was  caught, 
Whose  gold  is  steel;   and  so  you  constant  taught 
This  earthly  Clifton,  loved  Bartholomew. 
Bides  yet  a  Clifton  in  the  chiefest  Heaven, 
The  avro -Clifton  God  has  made  for  us, 
Serenely  placed,  divinely  bright  and  fair. 
Sometimes  unto  our  noblest  hearts  'tis  given 


24o  LETTERS  OF  T.  E.  BROWN          [1893 

To  see  its  circuit  broad  and  luminous: 

He  saw  it,  and  he  found  it,  and  he's  there. 

RAMSEY, 

December*2i6,   1893. 

To  MRS.  SHENSTONE. 

RAMSEY, 

December  30,   1893. 

Mr.  Shenstone  wrote  to  me  about  our  poor  dear 
old  Bartle.  What  a  sad  story !  we  are  not  likely  to 
see  such  another.  He  was  goodness  itself;  and  we 
shall  miss  him  as  a  friend,  as  a  counsellor,  as  a  true 
and  loyal  companion  more  than  can  be  expressed. 
Let  us  be  thankful  for  so  great  a  blessing.  I  remember 
his  first  arrival  amongst  us  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday. 
He  was  then  fresh  from  Marlborough  and  Oxford ; 
young  and  sanguine.  The  experience  of  life  never 
clouded  him,  though  it  made  him  grave  and  thoughtful. 
The  inner  man  was  '  renewed  day  by  day,'  and  a  ripe 
sweetness  assured  us  thereof.  Ah,  well !  .  .  . 

I  shall  make  inquiries  about  farm-houses  near  the 
coast.  We  are  a  funny  little  people,  light-hearted, 
irresponsible,  somewhat  unpractical,  very  un-English, 
if  that  will  suit  you.  For  my  part,  I  almost  forget 
that  I  ever  lived  in  England.  No  doubt  I  do  my 
level  best  to  humour  this  tendency,  and  to  make  a 
Lethe  of  the  blessed  old  herring-pond.  And  Lethe 
is  kind,  and  Lethe  is  useful ;  but  there  is  no  Lethe  in 
my  heart  for  dear  old  friends.  So  come  and  see! 
Kindest  wishes  for  the  New  Year. 

END   OF   VOL.   I 


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